


Wild Packs Of Family Dogs

by glowingmongrel



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Adventure, Graphic Depictions of Illness, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 22:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7481895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowingmongrel/pseuds/glowingmongrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A desperate call comes in from the remote settlement of Jamaica Plain and sends Preston and the General on an urgent delivery mission. But what should be a regular Minuteman affair becomes complicated when the General is gravely wounded on the way there, leaving Preston to get him to safety before they both succumb to injury, illness and the elements.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> wow! this was a huge challenge for me. i've not been the most active writer in the world but i actually managed to finish it! i'm super self-conscious about my writing so i'd like to say a big thank you to [placentalmammal](http://placentalmammal.tumblr.com) and my buddy [Rants](http://saints-row-2.tumblr.com) for beta reading my fic, giving me feedback, and generally having kind words and encouragement for me <3 
> 
> and of course a huge shoutout to [illustratedacorns](http://illustratedacorns.tumblr.com), the very talented artist i was paired with! 
> 
> before i leave you with this monstrosity of a fic, here's a [reference of Dakota](http://gatholine.tumblr.com/post/143884247914/%0A) if you're curious. 
> 
> enjoy! xoxo hannah

     “You’re fucking with us.” Marcy Long crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at the man on the couch. The residents of Sanctuary had set up whatever salvaged furniture they had available around a firepit, where most people liked to gather in the evening for food and decent company. Tonight, the esteemed General of the Minutemen was entertaining the group with stories from pre-War America.

 

“Nope, not at all. Scout’s honor.” Dakota put his pale hand over his heart playfully, watery grey eyes shining with amusement.

 

“I don’t even know what that means.”

 

He had to lean over Preston's lap to do it, but Dakota laughed and reached over to the barstool Marcy was perched on to pat her shoulder. This earned him a disapproving look. He passed her the recipe book he dug, miraculously intact, out of the cupboard in what’s left of his house.

 

“See? It’s even got pictures.” He said, displaying the book.

 

“Jesus Christ.”

 

Preston leaned over to get a look at the General’s rather baffling book. The page, indeed, read “ _Creamy Dried Beef Mold_ ” and he was not entirely sure what to make of that. Dakota had to explain what the gelatin actually was and somehow that made it worse.

 

“Wait, wait,” MacCready interjected, “Run the mayonnaise thing by me again.”

 

“It’s like...a spread. Made of oil and egg and stuff.”

 

“And you guys put that sh...that stuff on like, anything?”

 

“Yeah, some of these recipes even have fruit. You folks don’t know what you’re missing.”

 

“I lived on mole rat for two months once,” Preston said, “Damn near turned me vegetarian. Your recipes here would probably be an improvement.”

 

“See? At least somebody supports me,” Dakota joked easily, nudging Preston’s arm. Having had a few drinks, it turned to leaning heavily on Preston’s shoulder.

 

“So, wait, you guys just thought it’d be a great idea to make everything into some weird loaf thing?” asked one of Sanctuary’s recent settlers, Rita, sitting on the other side of Dakota on the couch. She’d had a few too many drinks which Preston noticed seemed to be a habit with her. Not that he had much room to talk.

 

Rita was big and broad, well over six feet, with short cropped hair and an assortment of tattoos and scars that made everybody reasonably sure she’d been a raider at one point. Sandwiched between Rita and Preston, Dakota looked rather small in comparison.

 

“Well, no,” Dakota explained, “There’s actually kind of a reason-”

 

Rita groaned. “Yknow what? I just realized I don’t care.”

 

Dakota rolled his eyes at her. “Alright, alright. Preston, you like history, right?”

 

Preston gave him an easy smile. The beer and the radstag stew they had all shared over the cooking fire filled him with warmth and he felt almost relaxed. Sanctuary felt...quiet and safe now, with its remote location and the General bringing his assorted friends home to help. He still found himself patrolling back and forth whenever he wasn’t out with Dakota but a lot of his unease had faded.

 

“Sure, General.”

 

Dakota had been spending the past few days scrambling with Sturges to find the parts they needed to fix up his Power Armor, which was torn to shreds. The spotty explanation Preston had been able to get was that it had to do with finding his missing son. So it was nice to see the General relax, even if it meant listening to him explaining mayonnaise to everyone. He looked happy and not quite so tired, and that was enough for Preston.

 

“Well, back before the war, they got really good at preserving food, a lot of advances in technology that let them make things like...well, like Cram and stuff. The kind of food that’s still around right now so they must’ve done something right. Anyway-”

 

Dakota went on and _on_ about the trends in preserved and processed foods and the companies trying to promote their mayonnaise and so forth. Exhausted by the long day, Preston’s attention began to drift a little bit. After a while, Dakota put a hand on Preston’s shoulder and shook him gently.

 

“You still there?”

 

Preston jumped a little. “Oh...yeah, just drifted off a bit. Sorry.” Dakota’s hand felt warm and steadying.

 

“Don’t worry about it. It’s late. And the history of processed food isn’t all that interesting.” He said it like it had just now occurred to him.

 

Preston looked around and sure enough, many of the residents of Sanctuary were already making their way to their respective homes or falling asleep on the derelict pieces of furniture they’d set up around the cooking fire. He glanced at Dakota’s pip-boy, which read 10:46 PM.

 

“Guess we’d better get some rest, huh?” he asked, offering his friend a smile.

 

Dakota leaned back on the couch and yawned, running a hand through his greying hair. Dakota always said it was still jet black before he was in cryo. He certainly looked like he needed rest, with deep dark bags under his eyes that looked like bruises, but it was hard to tell if that wasn’t a result of being frozen as well.

 

“Yeah,” Dakota said, “Let’s head in. I’ll walk with you.”

 

He stood up, tall and slender, and offered Preston his hand to help him off the couch.

 

Preston’s house - and God it was incredible to think he had his own house now - is two doors down from Dakota’s. It’s blue and has relatively patched up walls and a ceiling and Dakota proved surprisingly good at finding pre-war paintings and posters to help everyone make their homes a little less dreary, so he had some colorful paintings on the walls. He even had a Minuteman flag. Truth be told, he still felt a little strange about it all. Couldn’t complain much, though. Dakota grinned so proudly at him whenever they were at the house.

 

To one side was Mama Murphy’s house, where the chair Dakota had fixed up for her sat. Sturges let her keep the candles from his garage as she seemed to like having them all over the house. On the other side of Preston’s house was what they hoped would eventually become a clinic. As of right now the little yellow building was just a bunch of cots and whatever medical supplies they’d salvaged, but Preston had high hopes for it.

 

Sanctuary was actually starting to look like a real town in a sense.

 

Preston looked around at it all as they walked, side by side, to the door of his house. He smiled tiredly.

 

“Well...I’ll see you tomorrow, General.”

 

“Bright and early, right? Take care, Preston.” Dakota patted him on the shoulder again and lingered there, still a little tipsy.

 

Then they parted ways for the evening, with Johnny Mercer’s _Personality_ drifting through the nighttime air from Dakota’s pip-boy radio and Dakota quietly singing along.


	2. Chapter 2

     The next morning, tinny raindrops fell on the corrugated steel patching the roofs of the Sanctuary houses. At 5:34 AM, when the world was still blue and sleepy, and the damp cold seeped through the thin blankets in Dakota’s bed, he was jolted awake by a frantic pounding on his front door. He resisted waking up, briefly, before he sat bolt upright in the realization of where he was. Dogmeat, who’d been asleep at the foot of his bed, perked up his ears and gave a soft  _ ‘woof’ _ in the direction of the door. 

 

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and quickly pulled a blue bathrobe over his slim frame and hurried to the door. The floor felt wet, which meant another leak in the roof, another thing to fix later.

 

Shivering at the door was a small blonde woman that Dakota recalled was another of the recent settlers. He scoured his memory for her name...something with a G, something...Grace. Grace Frost. Dogmeat stuck his nose out of the door and sniffed her. 

 

Grace’s hazy blue eyes were wide and her hair was plastered to her head from the rain. She was only wearing a loose housecoat, which was also drenched, over her nightgown and she was standing barefoot in a puddle.

 

“Mister...General Forsythe, sir, I was workin’ the radio and we got a call in f-from Jamaica Plain. It’s urgent, sir!”

 

Dakota put his hands up in a non-threatening gesture. His voice was gentle and warm as he said, “It’s alright, you know the Minutemen are always ready to help. What do they need?”

 

“Some people are real sick, General, they’re gonna need medicine. But they need it there faster than the caravans can take it.”

 

Dakota nodded, but he felt something cold settle in his stomach. Urgent missions like this, they couldn’t just send  _ anyone _ . Jamaica Plain was remote, small, and surrounded by marshlands, not something any caravan could get to fast and not something they can send just any runner out to. Preston always assured Dakota that it was alright that he couldn’t do everything, that he had his own problems and that was fine, but it never killed the guilt Dakota felt if he even considered turning someone away.

 

“Alright, Grace. What kind of medicine do we need here?”

 

She wrung her hands. “Some kinda flu is goin’ around, that’s why it’s so urgent, somethin’ bad. They said it’s somethin’ they could get from Doc Weathers but he don’t really get out that way…”

 

“And we’d get there faster than anyone, you’re right,” Dakota finished for her.

 

He was already grabbing his blue General’s coat from the coat rack by the door. “Get together whatever they need, we’ll head out as soon as we can.”

 

The sound of Grace’s bare feet on the pavement faded off as she ran back to the little office set up across the street. It was little more than a shack with a radio tower on it, but it served the Minutemen well enough.

 

Dakota’s hands shook a little as he pulled his shirt and pants on. It took some finesse to secure the metal armor over his clothes, something he hadn’t been the greatest at lately. He always shook just a little bit, a tiny little tremor that probably warned of something worse down the line. It wasn’t really time to dwell on that though. Dakota pulled the blue coat on over the armor and brushed some dust off of the star painted on his chestplate. He slung his .50 sniper rifle over his shoulder and grabbed .44 revolver from his gun case as a backup. He was already out the door when he pulled his gloves and sea captain’s hat on and started in a jog towards Preston’s house.

 

Predictably, Preston was already awake, scarf hanging over his shoulders loosely as he gathered his things in a rush.

 

“Come on, we should get moving,” he told Dakota, grabbing his hat as he left the doorway of his house.

 

“Grace is getting together what we need,” replied Dakota, “We should figure out what route we wanna take.”

 

The General pulled up the map on his pip-boy and zoomed it out as far as it would go. Preston leaned in to look at it.

 

“The most direct way is right through the Fens but...there’s a lot of danger through that way.”

 

Dakota looked the map over a little. “Could go around. If we head through Concord and stick to the outside of the river we can swing through that way.”

 

“That’ll take us through the swamp, won’t it?”

 

“Yeah but that’s better than taking us straight through Boston Common. Gunners, raiders, mutants - we’d never get through in time!”

 

Preston took a moment to follow the route Dakota had pointed out, still pressed against the General’s shoulder in the cold morning air. He ran his gloved finger over the roads they’d stick to and he nodded as he understood the plan. It was a lot of sparsely populated space, and they’d no doubt still run into the usual dangers, but nothing like the kind of trouble they’d hit in the city.

 

Grace ran past them, into the clinic. It was mostly just storage of medical supplies right now, but it had better stock than most of the smaller settlements, so it didn’t take her long to find what she needed. Picking through the boxes both labeled and unlabeled for about two minutes, she huffed out a sigh, and then a relieved little “ah!” as she pulled a small case of syringes. She packed it into a brown doctor’s bag next to a few other necessities.

 

She came back out to the Minutemen and pressed the bag gently into Preston’s gloved hands. He smiled at her and passed it to the General.

 

“Here, I found those needles, the dex...dextra...whatever, the cough stuff.”

 

“Dextromethorphan,” Dakota finished, “They’ll need it if it’s getting colder out. Last thing we need is an entire settlement with pneumonia.”

 

Low fog hung over the small town and obscured the view past the bridge. Preston adjusted his hat and fixed his scarf while Dakota looked through the doctor’s bag.

 

A very hungover Rita made her way across the street from the firepit, holding coffee in one hand and a truly frightening red pipe wrench in the other.

 

“Hey, boss,” she greeted, patting Dakota very heavily on the shoulder, “Heard you guys were headin’ out in a hurry. Take Big Jim with ya.”

 

“Take who-”

 

Before Dakota could finish, Rita handed him the wrench. He noted that she’d added vicious-looking rusty hooks to the damn thing.

 

Rita gave him a lopsided grin. “Case you get in a tight spot, man. Kneecap ‘em with him.”

 

“Thanks,” Dakota replied, laughing through it, “I try to keep my distance but yeah...you never know.”

 

He ended up securing the wrench - Big Jim, he reminded himself - to his belt behind his revolver’s holster. It wasn’t exactly his first choice to get so up close like that but she’d had a point about being in a tight spot. And there were other, more conventional uses for a wrench.

Preston retrieved his laser musket and a duffel bag of travel supplies from beside his door. He watched and waited for Dakota to finish his goodbyes. Dakota knelt down to pat Dogmeat and ruffle the dog’s ears, quietly telling him to stay and keep an eye on things in Sanctuary. 

 

The General turned to him with a smile, dark circles and worn lines on his face giving the impression of exhaustion, but his eyes were energetic. He carefully fit the medical supplies inside Preston’s duffel bag and made sure everything was packed in tight.

 

“Alright, let’s roll.” Dakota tuned his pip-boy to Diamond City Radio for the trip.  _ Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin On  _ had just started up.

 

Shouldering the bag, Preston followed him towards the footbridge, out of Sanctuary. The upbeat music didn’t serve to make the urgent situation feel much better, but it filled the silence and that was a small comfort.

 

     By the time they made it into Concord, Travis was talking about something or other on the radio. Dakota picked up a bit about Valentine in there and smiled briefly at the mention of his friend, but he couldn’t pay much attention to it as the words faded in and out of focus in his head. He did notice Preston humming gently beside him though, repeating the tune of the last song.

 

He glanced over to look at Preston, and spent a few seconds enjoying his comforting presence before the world fell out from under him and he found himself flat on his back on the other side of a sandbag barricade.

 

“Whoa, you okay?” Preston called, with maybe a little too much urgency.

 

Dakota sat up rubbing his head. His hat had rolled a few feet away. “I’m okay, just wasn’t watching where I was going.”

 

Preston offered Dakota his hand and pulled him effortlessly to his feet. “Well...be careful.”

 

He dusted off the back of Dakota’s coat and was clearly straining not to be amused by it all. You’re not supposed to laugh at your General but when the man falls ass over teakettle because he didn’t see the giant sandbag barricade in broad daylight, it’s a challenge.

 

Just as the opening chords to  _ Sixty-Minute Man _ came on the radio, a ragged voice yelled out, “End of the line!”

 

“Oh for--” Dakota dodged the shots from the raider’s pipe pistol and rolled into the relative shelter of the nearest blasted-out building. His hands fumbled with his sniper rifle and he gave up on it, opting for the revolver instead. He scanned the street and saw there were only four of them, just the occasional stragglers that still came through this place.

 

Preston dodged the other direction, taking cover behind a mailbox. It wasn’t ideal but the raiders weren’t exactly great shots. He wound up his laser musket and took a shot at one he saw reaching for a grenade on their belt. The red flash hit the raider in the chest and sent them sprawling, maybe not dead yet but certainly out of the fight.

 

Dakota, unlike the raiders, had always been a crack shot. Military sniper, and pretty damn good at darts too. Even the faint tremble in his hands only threw him off slightly as he spun the revolver’s cylinder, aimed, and fired at the first raider. The shot hit them in the neck, an arching spray of blood against the sandbags, and they were down.

 

The other two raiders seemed wiser and took off out of Concord, grabbing the injured one hauling them along. It wasn’t a fast retreat, but Dakota didn’t fire again. He wasn’t one to shoot at someone fleeing if he didn’t have to.

 

Preston sunk to the ground behind the mailbox to catch his breath and waited for Dakota to come back over. He couldn’t help but admire him, or at least his impressive aim. He never did it like he enjoyed the killing, he was never cold about it, but he still did what he needed to survive and he did it  _ well _ .

 

A dusty gloved hand clapped down on Preston’s shoulder and gave him a start.

 

Dakota was looking at him with friendly concern. “You good?”

 

Preston nodded and braced himself on the mailbox to stand. “I’m okay. We should move, though.”

 

“We forgot to eat this morning, didn’t we?” Dakota asked out of the blue as he crossed the street to retrieve his fallen hat.

 

Preston straightened his coat and nodded. “Yeah, we left in a hurry. I think I got some Cram in my bag…”

 

Dakota shook his head and put his hat back on. “Nah, there’s that Drumlin Diner just up over by Starlight. We can stop there real fast and grab something for the road.”

 

     The aforementioned Drumlin Diner was a fairly short and blessedly uneventful walk down the road, passing the massive billboard where Trashcan Carla occasionally stopped. She wasn’t there that morning, but Dakota always remembered the sign as a landmark. 

 

When they stepped into the diner, Dakota greeted Trudy with a quick and polite wave. The older woman was at the counter, still blearily working on a cup of what may or may not have been coffee. 

 

“Morning, uh...it’s General now, isn’t it?” she said. 

 

Dakota nodded. “That’s me, but you can always still use my name. How’re you and Patrick holding up?” 

 

“Much better with Wolfgang rottin’ in hell. You boys need anything?”

 

Dakota explained they were headed down to help Jamaica Plain and that they were in a hurry, without even time to sit down. Trudy nodded in understanding and shuffled over to a cooler behind the counter. She pulled out a wrapped up package of dried meat and handed it to Dakota. 

 

“That’s radstag jerky. It’ll keep forever and it’s easy to store in your bag. Tastes better than that pre-war crap, too.” She gave him a somewhat tired smile and then turned back around to grab some mutfruit from a wooden box behind her. She passed it over to them as well and gave them a total. 

 

“Thanks, Trudy,” Dakota said as he paid up, “You take care, alright?” 

 

Back on the road, Preston fell in line next to Dakota and walked with him. He waited a bit before he asked, “So how did you know them? You just come through here a lot?”

 

“Well, sort of. But mostly it’s because I helped them fight off some chem pusher.”

 

“That’s, uh...Wolfgang, I take it?” Preston asked. 

 

Dakota nodded. “Yeah, I kinda stumbled across their stand-off when I was scouting out Starlight.” 

 

There were a few more quiet minutes as they walked side by side down the cracked old road. They were coming up on the train derailment soon, there wasn’t really any salvage left there but that wreckage and the nearby almost-intact house made another landmark. Dakota’s pip-boy served well as a map, but he knew Preston was used to keeping track of landmarks. It was probably a good habit to have, really. As they walked past said landmarks, though, Preston seemed to space out.

 

“You okay?” Dakota asked warmly. Preston jumped a little, embarrassed being caught. Dakota saw Preston get flustered often enough, it was kind of charming. 

 

“Hm?” 

 

“You kinda drifted off there,” Dakota told him, concerned. Preston glanced up at him, still clearly embarrassed. 

 

“Oh...I’m alright, just thinking.” Preston paused like he wasn’t going to continue, but Dakota looked at him expectantly. “It’s just...nice? Seeing how much you’ve helped people.” 

 

Dakota shrugged. Now it was his turn to be a little flustered; the praise Preston tended to give him almost felt undeserved. Exaggerated, at least. “Sometimes people just need a hand, yknow? You say that a lot. Guess I took it to heart.” 

 

Maybe instinctively, Dakota walked a little closer to Preston, bumping his shoulder and staying there. He’d always been a friendly, tactile person, always liked to stay close to his friends and Preston was no exception, but maybe he did it all a little more often with him. The way he’d always stayed exceptionally close to Corinne, which was a train of thought he wasn’t sure he wanted to continue. When he looked, Preston was trying to subtly maneuver his hat down over his face, the way he did whenever settlers started showering him with compliments. 

 

“Well, that’s...that’s great to hear.” Preston told him. 

 

“I should hope so, I’m the General. It’d be kind of a problem if I was an asshole.” Dakota said with light amusement in his voice. He stayed close by Preston, shoulders brushing as they walked side by side over the old railroad tracks. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

     They swung down towards Greygarden to avoid ghoul-infested Lexington and the raider base at Corvega Assembly Plant. Dakota didn’t intend any more stops but they quickly found themselves accosted by Supervisor White, who delivered a small bag of mutfruits into Dakota’s hands. “For all your help with the water plant, _darling_ ,” She told him.

 

Dakota took the time to politely thank her, even tipped his sea captain’s hat. He then decided it wouldn’t hurt to at least check on their defenses. After all, the little group of robots was all alone out here, even if they’d been doing alright the past 210 years.

 

“This place doesn’t get hit too much, but a lot of trader caravans stop through here,” he explained sheepishly. “Just gonna see how everything’s holding up.”

 

He had even built a small shack near the greenhouse in case anyone - himself included- needed to sleep there. It had an outhouse and a doghouse, sans dog for the moment.

 

Dakota finished his rounds as quickly as he could manage. And damn if Preston didn’t find himself admiring the man again, stopping to check in on a bunch of robots the same way he checked on all their human settlements. Preston had to admit he might not even have been so doting.

 

     As they left Greygarden, they slowed their pace a little to keep from tiring out. There was the remnants of a raider camp on the road below, under a bridge, but no raiders to claim it, so the pair walked with relative ease alongside the bank. It was a relatively calm next hour or so. Pre-war it might only have taken 6 or 7 hours to walk to where they needed to be, but time spent stopping and changing their route to circumvent danger dragged the day out.

 

Some time close to noon, Preston was spacing out again, whistling lightly to some melody he couldn’t place, when Dakota spoke up.

 

“Hey, Preston…”

 

“Yes, General?” Preston mentally kicked himself for being so formal. Dakota always asked him not to.

 

“You know history. Where did George Washington keep his armies?”

 

Preston stopped a second, blinked. “Um, I’m not--”

 

“In his sleevies.” Dakota looked inordinately proud of himself as he tried not to laugh before he could finish his joke.

 

It was arguably the stupidest joke Preston had ever heard and he did the ugliest snort laugh at it as soon as he got it. “ _Shit_ , General…”

 

Dakota took his hat off and gave Preston a cheeky bow. He looked remarkably childish for someone with a widow’s peak and deep laugh lines.

 

“My wife always loved my jokes. When she got pregnant with Shaun, she told me I had to learn some that were appropriate for a kid. Sooo…”

 

“No more dick jokes, huh?”

 

“No, I could make those. But yknow, just to her. I picked up some others for Shaun.”

 

Preston got quiet before Dakota did, with the sudden pressing feeling he’d brought up something painful for the General. However, Dakota just smiled, a little sadly. The man hid his guilt on the matter well.

 

“General…” Preston began.

 

“You can just call me Dakota, I keep saying that.”

 

Preston shrugged, embarrassed. “Alright, well. Either way, I’m--wait…” He put his arm out across Dakota’s chest to halt him as he looked around and took in their location. “We aren’t safe here.”

 

Dakota began looking around with the sharp eyes and perception that’d saved his life in the wastes more than a few times. His gaze centered on the same spot Preston’s did - the massive converging of overpasses ahead. They were still a fair distance from the place, so he raised his sniper rifle to look through the scope, getting a better view.

 

Up on the raised roads, there was a veritable wall of windmills constructed out of airplane engines, scraps of fabric draped about for shade, ramshackle buildings - all indicative of people living there. It wouldn’t be a concern if it weren’t for the telltale skull emblem painted sloppily on one of the pre-War billboards.

 

“Shit,” Dakota said, “MacCready talked about this. The Turnpike is one of the bigger Gunner bases.”

 

Preston never considered himself a particularly hateful person, but he bristled at the name, even though he already knew what they were dealing with. He squared his shoulders and crossed his arms. “Any other day, I’d say we go up there and shoot every one of them.”

 

After he spoke, he felt Dakota’s hand on his arm. He turned to face his friend, meeting his large, warm eyes. “I’d be right there with you,” Dakota said gently, “But just the two of us, with what supplies we’ve got…”

 

“I _know_ that, I just - ugh.” Preston rubbed his hands over his face. “Yeah. Let’s go, we can take one of the smaller roads around.”

 

     They were still far enough back to find a good alternative and keep out of the sights of the Gunners. There was a road leading around the Mass Pike Interchange, skirting the river. As they began following it, Preston noticed the area they were passing through was the Forest Grove marsh. It used to be a town. Now it was just a bunch of rotting old buildings, sinking into the floodwaters, and a series of junk bridges connecting them. It looked like someone tried to live there, but it was abandoned now. He always hated water, especially the murky dark water in places like this, and he knew for a fact the place wasn’t safe. It was safer than Gunners, though.

 

“Forest Grove Park…” Dakota broke the brief silence.

 

“This place familiar?”

 

“Yeah, some of Corinne’s friends lived here.” He spoke quietly.

 

Preston frowned guiltily. “Sorry to bring it up.”

 

“It’s alright, let’s just keep moving.”

 

The sun was high in the sky as they made their way past the flooded town, water lapping gently at the edges of the marsh. As they left it, the passed through a shady area, near a bridge. Several burnt-up cars and trailers littered the road, old relics of the time before the War. They carefully sidestepped jagged edges of metal from rusted-out cars, keeping to the small road past the town. Preston started to whistle softly again, just some nothing tune in his head. Dakota hadn’t put his radio back on in a while.

 

Preston was scanning the bridge they had to pass when a wet, hissing growl came not from ahead, but from the sides. Just like that, they were on them, first the twisted, gnarled arms grasping from under one of the cars ahead, then bare feet on the pavement behind them.

 

“Oh _damn_ it!” Preston yelled, frantically grabbing his laser musket, “Ferals!”

 

He hit the first one as it pulled its body out from under the car. The first shot caught it in the jaw and the feral fell, rolling on the road. It started to stagged to its feet, lower jaw hanging broken and half-melted as it looked up at Preston and screamed in that horrible ragged way. The second shot hit its chest and send it backwards, stumbling for a moment before it crumpled and fell in a heap, loosely twitching like it was trying to clutch at the hole in its chest cavity.

 

He could hear Dakota firing at the second one they’d heard, and the damn thing must have dodged the shot, zigzagging on the blacktop and hurling itself towards them. It wasn’t even a coordinated jump. Ferals just...threw themselves at you. Preston whirled around to face the General and the oncoming ferals. Dakota managed to sidestep his attacker, letting it crash to the ground, but it made the General lose his balance. The road scratched what ravaged skin the feral still had, and left it hanging off the creature’s body, and it rolled back up to grasp at Dakota’s ankle. Contorted fingers with yellowed nails wrapped around his boot and dragged him to the ground. Dakota landed flat on his ass and in one frantic motion, stabbed towards the feral and ran his bayonet through its throat, sending blood bubbling up from the wound and out of the feral’s mouth. It choked and sputtered, then went limp.

 

Preston was headed over to help Dakota back to his feet when the third feral clambered out of the window of the building behind him and ran clumsily for him. In a panic, Preston fired one flailing shot at it. He missed, and as he desperately started to crank his laser musket, the feral reached him. He froze.

 

Again he heard Dakota yell from behind him, but in a blind panic, all Preston could think about was the ferals, how they swarmed, how fast they were. They ignored the way their skin sagged and tore when they threw themselves at their victims and hit the pavement. You were fucked if they got you surrounded. Preston dropped his gun when the feral knocked him to the ground, and he scrambled to kick and pry the creature off him, thanking the Lord he wore his gloves.

 

“Preston, help me!” Dakota’s voice cut through the panic, and Preston was hit with the realization he could very well lose the General. Not this, not again. He wouldn’t do it. He kicked the feral off of him, hard enough to send it backwards and let him grab his laser musket again. One well-placed shot hobbled the thing, leaving it on the ground, unable to get back to its feet. He’d finish it off later, but right now all that mattered was getting to Dakota.

 

He turned right as the feral ghoul that had wrapped itself around Dakota’s shoulders pulled the skinny man down, thrashing against the ground. Its fingers scratched viciously at his head, smearing around the blood that was already pouring from a bigger wound. Dakota had enough strength to roll over so he was face-down in the pavement, trying to keep the ghoul’s claws out of his eyes. Then it went for his neck.

 

Preston couldn’t shoot it, he might hit Dakota and he wasn’t good enough of a shot to risk it. He scanned the ground for anything, maybe Dakota’s revolver, but it was still tucked safely in his holster.

 

A flash of red caught Preston’s eye and he realized that the pipe wrench Dakota had brought was lying in the street, having fallen off his belt. Preston dove forward and grabbed it. It was heavy in his hand, and the crooked metal hooks at the end of it would’ve made him grimace if he’d been paying attention. But it was his only chance.

 

He flipped the wrench in his hands to use the side without the hooks, and with all the strength in his arms he raised it up and brought it down on the feral’s head. He was still terrified he would hit Dakota but after the first _crack!_ of the wrench hitting the creature’s skull, all he could really think about was just getting this over with. He brought it down again, and again, trying to block out it’s choking screams and snarls, until finally it staggered off of Dakota and gave him enough time to grab the revolver.

 

It took one clean shot to the head.

 

Preston walked, shaking, to the other feral, still trying to get to its feet, and shot it as well.

 

Once it was over, he looked around at the carnage of the feral ghouls, the blood and viscera on his gloves, the fucking _pipe wrench_ he’d bashed the ghoul’s head in with...he had to stop himself from throwing up.

 

The sound of Dakota’s pained groans were an effective distraction. Dakota heaved himself up from where he was lying in the dirt and sat up against the nearest rock. When Preston shook off his shock and looked at him, the sight made his heart drop into his stomach. The General’s chest was heaving and he was shaking harder than Preston was, with blood pouring down the entire left side of his head. His skin was sallow and his hair was matted, and his eyes were closed.

 

“Shit…” Preston dropped the wrench. He crossed the short distance and knelt down at Dakota’s side, touching his shoulder feather-light and shakily. “General? Can you…I mean, are you alright?”

 

It took Dakota a moment to respond, first by coughing and spitting some blood out, and then by saying “Told you…don’t have to…call me that.”

 

Preston tried to force a smile but it faltered. “Okay. Okay…Dakota, are you okay?”

 

Dakota coughed again. “Just gotta...bandage me. I can get up.”

 

He couldn’t.

 

Preston ended up carefully draping one of Dakota’s arms over his shoulders and pulling him gently into the trailer the last ghoul had come from. It was empty now, but it’d shelter them as long as they needed it. When he set Dakota down against the interior wall of the little structure, he sat close next to him. He couldn’t stop the tears once the adrenaline wore off.

 

Preston wiped his gloves on his coat and then covered his face with his hands, choking on a sob. “I’m sorry, this is...I’m sorry,” he sniffed, “I can’t do this again. Enough people died because I didn’t stop it-”

 

“ ‘m not dead,” Dakota said quietly, shifting to lean on Preston’s shoulder, “It’s not your fault I got hurt.”

 

“But it is my fault. I should’ve been paying more attention, but I panicked.” Preston was...resigned. He was crying and still felt panic rise in his throat when he remembered Dakota could have died, but he was resigned to blaming himself for it. He should’ve kept an eye out, should’ve been quicker to get that feral off of himself, should have done so many things so differently. That was always how it went.

 

Dakota, however, shook his head and reached a trembling hand up to pat Preston’s chest. “No, you...you did fine. Saved my ass from that feral.”

 

“I...thanks.” Preston tried very pointedly not to think about the General’s hand lingering on him.

 

Dakota sat up a little and smiled lopsidedly. “Besides, we match now.”

 

“What?” 

 

Dakota’s hand traveled up to touch the left side of Preston’s face, clumsily tracing his scar. It made Preston feel...something. He wasn’t sure how to process it at the moment. Before he could say anything, Dakota pulled his hand back, and motioned at his own face, left side, now with a long and jagged cut. “See?”

 

 

 

“I...yeah,” Preston answered, “That’s actually pretty…” He trailed off with the dawning realization of how much Dakota’s head was bleeding.

 

“Shit!” Preston suddenly got up, scrambling for their bags. Dakota’s had been thrown off by the feral, but Preston’s was still strapped to his shoulder. He pulled it down and shuffled through it for his share of the medical supplies. He started with a bit of spare cloth in the bag, pouring some of his purified water onto it. Then he gently began to wipe as much of the blood has he could off of Dakota’s face. He even tried to get it out of his hair, which was more difficult. When he dug through the bag again, he found that he had disinfectant, but not much. They’d been low on that for a while, giving most of it to settlers who cut themselves building things. But it was enough to pour into a folded square of gauze and press against Dakota’s wound in an effort to stave off infection.

 

Dakota hissed in pain when it touched him, but only briefly. He let Preston hold the gauze there, then take it off and replace it with a fresh new gauze pad. Preston watched him drift off a little as he wrapped the bandage around his head and under his chin to hold the gauze in place. The cut was long and deep and ferals tended to have all sorts of diseases.

 

Dakota gave him a sleepy smile. “Thanks. We should get going…”

 

“Not yet,” Preston insisted, “You need to rest. You lost a lot of blood.” To prove his point, Preston showed him all the blood on the first gauze rag, soaked right through, and the blood on the cloth he’d used to wash Dakota’s face.

 

“Okay...you got me there.”

 

“We’ll just rest for a while, alright?”

 

Dakota nodded. “Yeah, I’m...this hurts. A lot.”

 

Preston dug in the pockets of his coat until he found what Dakota needed - a syringe of Med-X stashed for emergencies. He removed the needle cover and primed the syringe to rid it of air bubbles. Dakota didn’t fuss, didn’t even really react as Preston injected him. He only sighed as the medicine began to take effect. Preston was grateful it seemed to work quickly.

 

It was a few silent moments before Dakota moved again, reaching down to turn the radio on on his pip boy.

 

The music came in staticy as he fumbled with the channel tuner, then evened out into soft piano notes. _“-do the birds go on singing? Why do the stars glow above?”_

 

“Don’t they know, it’s the end of the world?” Dakota sang along, off key and half asleep. It was...decidedly worse-sounding than usual, yet Preston found it comforting, and hummed along as they sat in the trailer, watching the river from the window.


	4. Chapter 4

     The sun was low in the sky by the time Dakota felt lucid again, late afternoon light filtering through the windows of the trailer. He looked around at the dark, dusty floor of their small shelter. There was a round rug on the other side of the trailer, next to an old crate with a Boston Bugle on it and some scattered wine bottles around it. Some unidentifiable greenish-yellow stain decorated the floor. He could hear Travis yelling about something or other on the pip-boy radio and reached an unsteady hand down to shut it off.  

 

Preston had dozed off beside him, leaning on his shoulder, so Dakota stayed still for another fifteen minutes or so, spacing out. The Med-X was still in his system and he felt...loose, light. He tried to shake it off after a bit. 

 

“Hey...Preston,” Dakota said, very quietly, as he nudged his friend. 

 

Preston woke up almost immediately, ever the light sleeper. His hat slipped off his head in the process and Dakota caught it, placing it back. 

 

“Yes, General?” Preston asked.

 

Dakota rolled his eyes. “Enough with the formal stuff, you make it sound like you don’t know my whole life’s story.” His tone was playful, under the slurring medicinal haze. 

 

Preston cracked a smile. “Alright,  _ Dakota _ . It’s just...force of habit, I guess.”

 

“I’m not used to being called a General, anyways. I was never that high ranked.” 

 

Preston didn’t press that issue, which Dakota was grateful for. After another moment of silence, Dakota tried to move. His body was mostly just bruised, but even under the fog of the Med-X, his head throbbed. 

 

He shook in more than just his wrists when he tried to stand, and he felt like he might puke, but Dakota still tried. 

 

Preston caught Dakota when he fell back down. Dakota sagged heavily against him.

 

“Hey, it might be a better idea to just spend the night…” Preston suggested. 

 

“No, I can get up. You just gotta help me a little.”

 

“You really shouldn’t push it…” 

 

It made Dakota’s heart ache a little, how Preston always worried over him. But he shook his head. “We came out here ‘cause we’re the only ones who’ll get to Jamaica Plain fast enough. We gotta keep moving.” 

 

Preston took a moment to answer, but when he did, he nodded in agreement. “You’re right,” he said quietly, “We’ve got people counting on us.” 

 

Once Dakota got to his feet, though he was dizzy at first, he started to regain his balance. It took him a moment to get his bearings, and everything went a little fuzzy, but he shook it off easily enough. The gash on his head still felt sore and there was sticky dried blood left on his neck, but he gave Preston a smile to stop him from worrying so much, and stepped out of the trailer. 

 

He was still a little unsteady, and lord knows he felt like shit, but Dakota carefully scanned the area for his fallen backpack and hat. The bag was right by the trailer and he shouldered it quickly, swaying a bit under its weight.

 

Preston helpfully caught him, smiling. His eyes were full of worry, though. 

 

Dakota’s hat had rolled a few feet away, and was covered in dirt and some stray drops of blood, but it was intact. 

 

“Okay,” Dakota said, placing the hat back on his head, “Let’s do this.” 

 

He had to lean on Preston as they walked at first, but Dakota started to recover after a while. He stayed close in case he started to feel faint again. 

 

They walked carefully and silently past the bridge, with the pip-boy’s radio shut off. They were both certain there would be more ferals that hadn’t been drawn out yet and the last thing they needed was another attack. 

 

“When I was a kid, those things gave me the worst nightmares,” Preston finally said, once they felt they were far enough away. 

 

“The first time I saw one I thought they’d be more like zombies. Like from the old movies, yknow?” 

 

Preston gave him a blank look and Dakota remembered that he probably _ wouldn’t  _ know. He always forgot things like that, little things he’d know or remember from the pre-War world and how others wouldn’t even know what he was on about. 

 

“Slow, I mean,”  Dakota clarified. “They shamble all slow in the movies, like….rrrrr….” He started to slowly shuffle along the road as an example.

 

Preston still looked harried, but it got a laugh out of him, which always made Dakota maybe a little more pleased than he needed to be. 

 

“I guess they do look like they wouldn’t be that fast, when you put it that way.” 

 

Dakota nodded. “Yeah. I hate the way they just...run. That’s like, zombie bullshit, they’re not allowed to be that fast.” 

 

“And they just...hurl themselves at you,” Preston added with a shudder. “Let’s stop talking about them.” 

 

Dakota was about to reply, when something caught his eye just ahead. Underneath a broken overpass, standing right side up and somehow not in pieces, was a refrigerator. 

 

It got Dakota curious immediately. 

 

“How much do you wanna bet there’s like, a perfect ice-cold Nuka-Cola in there?” He gave Preston his silly awkward grin and nudged him. 

 

When he tried the handle, however, he realized the fridge had a lock on it. 

 

“Now who the hell locks a fridge?” He asked, looking up at Preston. It was frustrating, but kind of funny at the same time. Dakota flashed Preston a smile as he dug a small box of bobby pins out of his bag. 

 

Dakota’s hands shook when he started to pick the lock. There’d been a tremor in his wrists since he left the Vault and he kept hoping it would go away before too long, just some byproduct of being cryogenically frozen. Now, it was hard to tell how much of the shaking was from that and how much was from blood loss or something from his injuries. Nevertheless, he got the lock to click open a few clumsy moments later.

 

He could feel Preston watching him the whole time, his concerned stare practically burning into the back of Dakota’s neck. 

 

Dakota let the door of the fridge swing open as he stood up, then did a silly bow and shot his trademark grin at Preston. Preston laughed with him and tried to subtly shift his hat over his face, but Dakota noticed him do it. He decided not to say anything about that.

 

Inside the fridge, among empty cartons of food long-since rotted away and old empty glass jars, was a small stash of ammo (a few .38, .50, and .44 rounds) and one aluminum gelatin mold. 

 

“We could use that ammo,” Preston said, leaning over Dakota’s shoulder to peer into the fridge stash. “Or, well. You could. No microfusion cells in there, huh?” 

 

Dakota shook his head. “Nope, but look what  _ is _ in here.”

 

He pulled the gelatin mold out of the fridge excitedly, leaning back to show it to Preston. He swayed a bit, still dizzy, and ended up leaning against Preston’s chest. He was a little embarrassed, feeling his heartbeat speed up, but he stayed put and held up the mold.

 

Dakota could practically hear the raised eyebrow in Preston’s voice. “Uh...No offense or anything, but what are you gonna do with that?”

 

“Use these to make those recipes I was telling everyone about. There’s this other one I used to make all the time, with shrimp…” 

 

Dakota didn’t actually plan on finishing that explanation, he just liked to see Preston’s attempt at finding a polite way to say it sounded disgusting. He stood up and steadied himself on the fridge, but felt Preston catch his arm anyways. 

 

“Thanks,” Dakota told him. 

 

Preston smiled sheepishly. “No problem, Gen--uh, Dakota.” 

 

“Not like I even have the mayonnaise or anything for the recipes,” Dakota continued on, “But yknow. I’m sentimental.”

 

He tucked the mold and ammo into his bag and then turned to pat Preston’s chest, pretending he didn’t feel like he was about to pass out. 

 

They took their time gently stepping over the rubble of the collapsed overpass, with Dakota holding tight to Preston’s arm to keep his steps from faltering on the broken ground. It’d be too easy to slip. 

 

     Once they were past that section, the road ahead was fairly clear, bordered on one side by thick trees and the other by jagged rocks overlooking the steep drop into the river. They still had a ways to go. It was a drive to the other side of town in pre-War times, and a couple hours of walking (a few more hours added in for combat and long ways around) now, but with the gash on Dakota’s head stinging with every pulse and his whole body wanting nothing more than to collapse against Preston’s solid form, it might as well have been the Appalachian Trail. 

 

He walked close and, to try and distract himself from the pain, Dakota nudged Preston’s arm and asked, “So...what about you? Jokes, stories, uh...recipes?” 

 

Preston looked almost embarrassed and didn’t answer for a moment, but in his face Dakota could read him trying to think of what to say. After a moment he answered, “Well, I guess I can tell you some Minutemen history or something.” 

 

“You always gotta talk shop like that? I’d rather just hear about you, honestly.” 

 

“O-oh,” Preston’s eyes widened a fraction, “I’m really not all that interesting.”

 

“Well neither are my stories about pre-War TV dinners.” 

 

“Touche. Alright, um…lemme think then.” 

 

Dakota was about to tell him that was fine when he froze, chilled to his core. Behind Preston, in the dying light of the early evening, he saw a pair of eyes he hadn’t noticed before. In the split second it took him to realize was he was looking at, they shifted. 

 

“Shit, move!” 

 

Dakota pulled Preston away from the wooded side of the road by his shoulder just as the massive, hulking silhouette of a fully-grown yao guai rose from the underbrush. 

 

It was the size of a car and it stood on its hind legs, shaggy hair hanging in clumps off of its skin in whatever patches hadn’t fallen out yet. Deep pronounced scars littered its body, trophies from whatever past battles it had. The animal would have been impressive if it wasn’t trying to kill them. 

 

The yao guai swung one of its heavy paws out as it came back down, barely catching the edge of Preston’s coat. Dakota yanked him back again, sending them both tumbling into the rocky dirt on the side of the road. The bear roared at them, and it wasn’t quite the sound Dakota was used to, not like in the movies. It sounded off just like every other irradiated animal that tried to eat him, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to it. 

 

Preston let out a yell as the animal swiped again, this time catching him and digging its claws into his leg. Dakota couldn’t see any blood but he knew the cuts from a creature like that could be more deadly than the ferals, and the last thing they needed was another injury. With no time to get one of his guns, Dakota did the first thing he could think of. With all his shaky strength, he lifted his foot and kicked the yao guai as hard as he could in the ribs. 

 

It wasn’t a hard enough kick to hurt the yao guai, but it was enough to piss it off and turn it towards Dakota, baring its yellow teeth as it roared in his direction. Dakota was getting Goddamn sick of being snarled at today. 

 

Dakota backed up, narrowly dodging the yao guai’s fangs, but he felt his back hit something solid as he tried to escape. He’d backed himself up against a cluster of trees. The bear swiped again and the only direction Dakota could go fast enough was back, throwing himself into the dry, shriveled trees and bushes. He felt branches and thorns tear at his clothes and he knew moving himself was going to hurt, but the bear’s jaws would hurt worse. 

 

Then, with a  _ crack! _ , the stock of Preston’s laser musket came down on the side of the bear’s head hard enough to stagger the beast. Dakota looked up, locking eyes with Preston for just a moment as he scrambled out of the trees. 

 

“Go! Get away from it!” Preston yelled, loud over the bear’s angered roaring. 

 

It took Dakota a split second to make the decision. He had to get away, he had no shot fighting the yao guai in his condition and there was only one way he could go. 

 

“Come on!” He yelled, motioning for Preston to follow but not waiting for him. 

 

His boots skidded in the mud and tracked prints onto the rocky outcropping above the river as he ran. He crossed the distance between the cluster of trees and the rocks in seconds. Praying Preston was right behind him, Dakota did the only thing he could think of doing. He jumped. 

 

He felt like he was in the air for a lot longer than he was, and when he felt the cold water hit him, it sucked the air from his lungs like a punch to the chest. The river was frigid this time of year and he couldn’t see a thing through the greenish-brown murk. When he felt the water cut through his bandages and hit the stinging cut on his head, it sent a shock of worry through him. It was superseded, however, by the painful need to breathe. 

 

Dakota gathered his bearings and came up for air, just for a second, before he dove back into the river, swimming in what he hoped was the right direction to throw off the yao guai and find a part of the bank that wasn’t too steep to climb out of. 

 

It felt like hours before he finally pulled himself out of the river and onto a mucky bank covered in the branches of old bushes, but it had probably been no more than minutes. Every part of Dakota ached all over again and as he rolled onto his back in the mud, he struggled to breathe. 

 

Staring at the sky, unable to move yet, he realized he was alone. 

Dakota rolled over and felt his pulse hammer in his head wound every moment of the way. His bag was still on his back but everything was undoubtedly soaked. His hat was floating in the shallow water nearby. He picked it up as he started to look around, scanning for the yao guai and for Preston. 

 

“Fuck,” he whispered. He didn’t want to yell in case he got the bear’s attention again, but he had to find Preston. He’d never forgive himself if he left his best friend, someone who trusted him with his life, to die. 

 

It was a hard climb back up to the road, but he made it, sitting down on the dry dirt and scanning the area he’d left behind as he caught his breath. The yao guai seemed to be gone, but so did Preston. 

 

“Preston?” He called out, not too loud, “Preston, cmon, lemme know where you are!” 

 

He pulled down the sniper rifle still strapped to his back, and aimed it ahead to peer through the scope. With the scope, he could easily make out the mangy bear, lumbering back into the woods. He was scanning for where he’d last seen Preston when a voice broke out from beside him.

 

“Dakota! I’m right here, by the boat!” 

 

He turned in a flash, dropping the rifle and looking for a boat. It was a rusty tub he hadn’t noticed before, half sunken into the bank. And there was Preston, looking distinctly dryer than Dakota.

 

Dakota didn’t ask questions at first, just ran clumsily down the bank and threw his arms around Preston’s shoulders. 

 

“I’m sorry, I thought you were right behind me.” 

 

“I was running along the bank, but I lost track of you when I chased that guai off.” 

 

Dakota rested his head tiredly on Preston’s shoulder. “Went under. I forgot how tired I get when I swim.” 

 

He felt Preston’s hand cautiously pat his back, like he wasn’t sure if he should or not. Dakota sighed into the touch and stayed where he was, more exhausted than he’d been all day. 

 

Preston cleared his throat as they separated a few moments later. “We might wanna just look for somewhere to spend the night. We gotta make sure you keep that cut clean.” 

 

Dakota shook his head. “No, I...I wanna keep going. Just for a while, we’ll stop when it gets dark.”

 

Preston gave him a smile, ever-so-slightly teasing. “Alright, promise?” 

 

“Promise. You can fuss at me if I try to keep moving then.” 

 

Dakota swayed when he took a step forward, but Preston caught his arm, and they started back down the road. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

     Two hours of slow, tedious walking later, and the evening light finally dimmed to night time. The moon glowed bright through the clouds and in the patches of sky that were visible, stars glittered. 

 

Preston breathed in deep, pushing his barely-contained anxiety further down. Dakota was walking alongside him but Preston had to slow himself to keep pace with the General, who shuffled tiredly along and swayed with every step now. He was either deeply exhausted or...something worse. 

 

“Beautiful night to be out and about,” Preston commented pointedly to break the silence, “But it’s dark now. Time to find a place to sleep.”

 

When he looked over at Dakota, the man’s face was pasty like it’d been the first day he met him. The bags under his eyes looked darker than ever and now he was shivering with every breath. 

 

“Yeah,” Dakota said, his voice croaking a bit, “I gotta...lie down.” 

 

“There’s a fence up there, maybe there’s a building.” Preston couldn’t make out a building necessarily, but he could see the tips of a wrought-iron fence poking out of the overgrown hedge a few yards ahead. It was worth a shot. 

 

As they approached the fence, the top of a white marble building became visible, illuminated by a faint green glow. There were a few things that glowed green like that, and Preston prayed it wasn’t another fucking feral ghoul. 

 

The fence surrounded what Preston assumed was some sort of graveyard or memorial park. In this state of disrepair, it was hard to tell. He was relieved to find that the faint glow was coming from tiny glowing fungi, growing clustered around a fallen statue. The statue’s legs were left standing, but the rest of it had fallen and fractured into pieces now sunken into the mud. There was something eerie about it. 

 

The marble building was even more eerie. It might’ve been a good enough spot to sleep, and while Preston thought it might be a mausoleum, he could get past that. Inside the building, however, placed right in the center of the floor on...what looked almost like an altar, was one lone mirelurk egg. The walls of the building were draped in red cloth and the egg itself was surrounded by vases of flowers and offerings of bones and fish. Preston couldn’t really imagine what the purpose of this was, but whether it was some mirelurk cult or the egg had just been conveniently laid in the middle of someone’s memorial, he didn’t like it. 

 

When Dakota’s voice filtered through the night air, it startled Preston. “Should...keep goin’...I don’t like this.” 

 

“Me either. C’mon, a little further. There’s gotta be someplace we can lie down for a bit.” 

 

Dakota motioned vaguely towards the space behind the marble building. “Up there...there’s like...big cargo thing.” 

 

Sure enough, ahead under the overpass there was an old shipping container. Nothing glamorous, but it was better than sleeping in the open. As they carefully picked their way up the hill behind the mausoleum to investigate, Preston shuddered as he could swear he felt eyes on his back. 

 

     The large shipping crate was a better find than either of them expected, with a small camp set up inside of it. There were a few grimy but still intact cots on the floor and a few candles that weren’t completely burned down. There were a few painting propped up against the wall of the crate and a little cooler, inside which Preston found a pre-War tin can of...something. The label had mostly worn off, but pre-War food was still food.

 

“Any idea what’s in here?” he asked Dakota, hoping he’d recognize what was left of the label or something. 

 

It took a moment as Dakota sat down, breathing too heavy. When he took the can from Preston, he gave him a weary half-smile. “Looks like soup. Can’t tell what kind, but...I’ve seen this label in the soup aisle.” 

 

“Well, how ‘bout I make a fire and heat this up? I got a mess kit in my bag.” 

 

“Still have that can of Cram?” 

 

Preston raised an eyebrow. “You want that more than the soup?” 

 

“Nah, guess not. Good backup if that soup’s nasty though.”

 

Preston laughed quietly. He didn’t feel much like cooking, honestly, with how bone tired he was after the whole hectic day. But he knew they’d regret it if they didn’t eat enough, he’d certainly made that mistake before. 

 

It took him a good hour to get a fire going, and then to lay out everything that’d gotten wet in their backpacks in the hopes it’d dry before morning. This unfortunately included both of their sleeping bags and left them to try and make themselves comfortable on the old cots. It was going to be a sore day tomorrow. 

 

By the time Preston had managed to force the can open with his knife and heat the soup (which turned out to be  _ carrot  _ soup, of all things), Dakota had fallen asleep. He looked sickly, worse than before, and when Preston shook him awake, he just looked around blearily like he didn’t even know where he was. 

 

“Cmon, man, you gotta eat.” Preston tried to pull Dakota into a sitting position. 

 

Dakota shook himself awake after a few moments and drew a shaky breath. “Alright...I’ll try.” 

 

Dakota’s hands shook so badly that he could barely hold a spoon. After a few seconds of watching him struggle with it, Preston quietly put his hand on Dakota’s wrist. 

 

“You want me to help you?” He asked, scooting himself closer to his friend. 

 

Dakota didn’t even try to protect his pride, he just nodded. Preston let Dakota lean against him to sit up, and carefully helped him eat. It was more intimate than he was used to, but it didn’t take very long. After a few bites, Dakota shook his head.

 

“That’s enough,” he said, exhausted, “I gotta...sleep more.” 

 

“Well...shit, wait. We have to look at your cut.” 

 

Dakota sunk back down to his mattress and began immediately to drift off. “You can look at it. Just gonna close my eyes for a while.” 

 

The ease with which Dakota slipped back into sleep unsettled Preston, but he let him rest and tried to carefully remove the bandage - now soaked in river water - from Dakota’s head. The cut had bled through the gauze and stained it an ugly rusty brown. When he pulled it off, it tugged at the cut enough to reopen it and make it ooze fresh blood. The skin around it had gotten red and a little swollen, and Preston knew pretty quickly that it was at least irritated. He prayed it was just irritated, anyways. 

 

He poured the very last of the antiseptic onto a new gauze pad and pressed it to Dakota’s face, making him stir slightly in his sleep. When the bandaging was finished, Preston watched Dakota for a while, just to make sure he kept breathing. He was exhausted from their day, though, and before long, he sunk down to his own mattress and drifted off. 

 

Preston was woken up a few hours later by the sound of Dakota throwing up everything he’d eaten in the past few hours. Preston sat bolt upright and looked in the direction of the sound, where Dakota was on his hands and knees outside of the shipping crate. 

 

When he stopped retching, Dakota sat back and wiped his mouth, gasping for breath, and then collapsed onto his side. 

 

“Fuck,” Preston whispered, getting out of the crate immediately to sit at Dakota’s side. “Shit, c’mon, stay with me.” 

 

Dakota’s breathing was labored and he was shaking uncontrollably now. His eyes were glassy when he looked up at Preston. 

 

“Feel like shit,” he mumbled, “The cut’s….burning.” 

 

Preston pulled off his glove and placed his hand on Dakota’s bone-white forehead. He pulled it back in surprise. 

 

“You’re burning up all over. That cut’s gotta be infected, we should...stay put for a while, try and get you--” 

 

“Just let me sleep a little. Couple more hours. Then we can keep moving.” Dakota’s voice was scratchy when he spoke.

 

“I wanna get to Jamaica Plain fast, too, but...you’re really sick, Dakota.” Preston had to pull Dakota into his arms to start moving him back to the crate. 

 

Dakota shook his head. “I’ll be alright in a bit. Promise.” 

 

“Quit saying that.” 

 

Dakota didn’t answer and he started to fall back into an uneasy sleep as soon as Preston helped him onto his mattress. 

 

Preston had a harder time sleeping, catching only cat naps in between waking up to nervously survey their surroundings, or check on Dakota, or inventory their medical supplies. When he finally truly fell asleep, he didn’t wake up until 9am. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

     When morning came and Preston tried to gently shake him awake, Dakota could barely pull himself to his feet. He felt shaky and weak, he wanted to throw up again, and he couldn’t hear much out of his left ear, but he knew it wasn’t going to do much good to stay in the shipping crate. 

 

Preston had to help him to his feet and Dakota found himself leaning on his friend to walk, but they started back on the road, slower than ever. The nearest settlement was Somerville Place, and it was a risky trip, but if there was even a small chance they’d have medicine…well, Dakota really didn’t want to die inside a shipping crate. He at least had to try to make it. 

 

Truthfully, the walking was a blur. Preston was sturdy and kept Dakota on his feet, but Dakota was barely there, just fading in and out like static in his brain.

 

When they passed what looked like some sort of park, Dakota had to stop to throw up again, this time nothing but bile. He leaned, shaking, against the park fence for a long time before his arm was draped over Preston’s shoulders again and they kept walking. In a brief moment of clarity, Dakota reached over to turn on his pip-boy radio.  _ It’s All Over But The Crying  _ had just started, and somehow, it managed to feel comforting, if only a little bit. 

 

The road came to a turn at a Red Rocket station and they stopped again so Dakota could lean against the building. He felt his consciousness slip even then, as he rested and tried to drink some water. He mostly dumped it on his coat and felt like he was going to throw whatever he did drink back up. 

 

They hadn’t made it far down the road when Preston’s voice broke through the fog in Dakota’s head. 

 

“ _ Fuck me _ , super mutants up ahead.”

 

Dakota wanted to tease Preston for how much he swore when he was stressed, but he couldn’t manage that long of a sentence. “Can...we go around?”

 

“Um...we can go into the woods but it’ll be hard for you,” Preston said, “Or we can hug the riverbank and try and sneak past. It’ll be risky, but…” 

 

Dakota nodded. “The riverbank, yeah. Can’t go uphill.”

 

     The super mutant encampment, which appeared to be an old scrapyard, was set fairly close to the bank, so they’d have to sneak by as carefully as possible. Frankly, Dakota didn’t think he’d be so good at being stealthy with how unsteady he was, but he’d be even worse trying to get through the trees. At least the slope provided some coverage as they slipped down next to the water, creeping quietly along. Dakota wished he had a stealth boy, but he’d been in too much of a rush before to remember to bring one. He could hear the mutants talking amongst themselves, but he couldn’t make out any words. They were close, though. Close enough to hear Dakota and Preston if either of them made a loud enough sound. 

 

Dakota’s heart skipped a beat as he felt the urge to cough. Unable to control it well, he ducked and pressed his face into Preston’s coat. It wasn’t the most attractive thing he’d ever done, but it kept Dakota somewhat quiet. 

 

He gave Preston his best delirious attempt at a sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

Dakota briefly stopped again a while later, catching his breath against a wooden boat on the shore. He didn’t stay there long, feeling his vision blur every time he let himself slow down. At least Preston kept a strong grip on him and kept him moving. 

 

They both let out breaths they didn’t know they were holding when they made it far enough past the super mutants to relax. 

 

The steep bank eased into a low slope against the river. Ahead, broken and sunken into the mud and silt, was the wreckage of a bus. It was Dakota who noticed the dogs behind it, barely visible through the windows of the bus. 

 

“Hold up,” he breathed, still to tired to speak any louder, “There’s...dogs.”

 

Preston stopped in his tracks and peered carefully through the bus windows. Dakota leaned heavily on him, then patted his chest. 

 

“Hm?” Preston turned to face him. 

 

“Don’t worry. Just don’t get too close.” 

 

He stayed put and Preston stayed behind him as the dog pack wandered out from behind the bus and moved a ways down the bank. They had the look of the usual wasteland mongrels, mangy and scrawny and ranging from missing patches of hair to being practically hairless, but they looked lively. The one at the head of the group was glowing, and in the shade of the rocks, she actually looked...pretty, in a way. Dakota had always liked dogs, though.  

 

“Cmon,” he told Preston, “Let’s sit down. In the bus.” 

 

They moved carefully and slowly over to the bus, which looked like it’d been lived in but not recently. There was a cushioned chair sitting next to the driver’s seat and a little cloth draped over the center console, like a table. Preston sat in the driver’s seat and handed Dakota bottle of water. It still made Dakota feel sick, but he knew he needed it. As they sat, they watched the dogs, who seemed to know there were there but remained relatively unphased. 

 

Occasionally, the glowing dog at the front of the group (Dakota was beginning to assume she lead the pack) turned her head and watched them carefully with her bright green eyes. She was aloof, but made no moves to attack them, and eventually laid down in the shade. Dakota counted seven dogs in all - the glowing dog, a white dog with black patches that still had most of its hair, an older-looking dog that was completely hairless, two rather unremarkable brown mutts, and two adolescent pups, trailing close after the glowing female. The pups were as gangly and cute as any puppies, wild or tame, and when their mother relaxed, they began to play together in the mud. 

 

Dakota smiled and laughed quietly. When he looked at Preston, there was a smile on his face as well, and Dakota weakly nudged him. 

 

“Alright, so they’re not too scary when they’re babies,” Preston laughed, “I still like Dogmeat better.” 

 

“Cause he’s got more fur?” Dakota laughed, “He’s a pretty damn good dog, though, you’re right.” 

 

“Maybe next time we go on a long trip, we oughta bring him. Harder for things to sneak up on us then.” 

 

The conversation faded out as Dakota started to fall asleep in his chair. He wanted to keep moving, but he also wanted to rest, and the sun coming through the window of the bus felt warm and perfect. He could hear the puppies barking playfully at each other outside, and as he drifted away again, he felt Preston gingerly squeeze his hand. Dakota squeezed back. 


	7. Chapter 7

     Preston didn’t sleep. He stayed where he was, watching the wild dogs as they lazed around and then finally began to move on, trotting along the riverbank and disappearing into the brush. Preston let Dakota sleep a while longer, still holding his hand. Truthfully, it made Preston’s heartrate speed up and his head spin a little, but his friend needed comfort and he wasn’t about to let his...complicated feelings get in the way. 

 

But Christ, did he like to daydream. Sometimes when Dakota would talk about all that mundane domestic pre-War nostalgia, Preston imagined himself in there, having coffee together in the morning or figuring out where to plant a garden. Of course, it was never easy to visualize what it might have been like in actual pre-War times, but even now, even in the dilapidated wreck of Dakota’s old house, he could imagine it. Then he’d shake his head and tell himself he was a mess for doing that, it was silly and pointless and Dakota was a widower now. Probably not even interested in men although Preston had never exactly asked. 

 

Now, here he was, holding Dakota’s shaky hand while the clouds began to grow dark overhead and light rain started to fall. Preston glanced at him. Dakota was still asleep, and he looked more like he did when they first met, pasty-white and sickly with his hair plastered to his face and deep, dark circles under his eyes. He wasn’t really classically attractive, not someone Preston might have looked at right away if he’d met him in the Minuteman barracks. But he was kind-hearted and silly and charming in his own way. And the greying temples were a good look on him. 

 

Preston shook his head. Waxing poetic about his dying friend,  _ classy _ . He gently extracted his hand from Dakota’s and shook his shoulder. 

 

“C’mon, we’re close to Somerville now. You gotta get up.” 

 

Dakota took a moment before he opened his eyes, looking up at Preston in confusion. It seemed to take him a minute to figure out where he was. 

 

“How long was I asleep?” 

 

“About an hour,” Preston said, already trying to ease Dakota out of his chair. “Can I look at your Pip-boy map?” 

 

Dakota nodded sleepily, leaning on Preston as soon as he was out of the chair. 

 

Preston looked the map over and was immediately worried. They’d have to go past Cutler Bend, which to his knowledge was full of mirelurks. Probably mirelurk kings, even. But they were so close, just a little ways from Somerville Place, and if they could just make it there...well, maybe this one tiny family settlement would have the right medicine for Dakota. It was now occurring to Preston what a long shot this was. But they had to try, and even if there wasn’t any medicine there, Dakota could rest indoors instead of in a shipping crate. It’d give him a fighting chance. 

 

It took a while to get Dakota out of the car, and he nearly threw up again when he stepped out, but Preston steadied him and Dakota recovered at least enough to get going. 

 

They gave Cutler Bend a wide berth as they passed it. Preston could easily make out mirelurks, scuttling around their nests, and he knew the mirelurk kings were in there somewhere. He kept thinking he saw flashes of their glowing fins, but he wasn’t sure. 

 

Preston held his breath as they neared the small access road he knew would lead them to Somerville. Just a few more feet. 

 

When they stepped onto the road, Preston knew they weren’t exactly safe, but he felt more at ease. Something about being so close to some friendly faces relaxed him. 

 

     After a few minutes, they neared a small rest stop. Preston wanted to keep moving but he knew better; that rest stop could have a first aid kit with medicine, or at least some more food or supplies. It’d be worse to pass it up, in case Somerville didn’t offer the rescue they were hoping for. 

 

As soon as he heard the buzzing, however, Preston decided he’d made a mistake. He knew that sound, it was distinctively sharp and loud. Stingwings. Exactly what they needed today. 

 

Dakota seemed to wake up a bit when he heard them, reaching for his revolver immediately. Preston tried to tell him not to, but Dakota shrugged it off. 

 

Even falling over from sickness and fever, Dakota was a good shot. He knew where to aim to make up for the more pronounced tremors in his wrists, and he knew how to watch the patterns the stingwings flew in. Of course, he couldn’t really make up for how fast they were, and when one dive-bombed him, the best Dakota could do was roll out of the way, trying to dodge it’s poisonous sting. 

 

It gave Preston time to wind up his laser musket, at least. He missed the first few shots at the nasty bugs, but when the one chasing Dakota made another dive at him, Preston caught it right in the back and turned it into a shower of ash. 

 

There were only two left now, and Dakota missed a revolver shot at one of them. It was diving for him like the other one, so fast Preston could barely see it, when a shot suddenly erupted and blasted it into bits right before his eyes. A shot, he quickly realized, came from a hunting rifle. 

 

“Son of a--!” Preston dodged as a figure in the fog ran for him, aiming the hunting rifle at his chest. 

 

The remaining stingwing took a dive at the stranger - whose armor Preston quickly recognized as raider gear - and threw them off their course, tumbling into the dirt. Preston took the opportunity to kick the gun from the raider’s hands before he had to dodge the stingwing himself. He couldn’t really see what the raider looked like under the piled on armor and the bandana covering their face, but the logo painted on their chestplate looked familiar. 

 

The bug briefly flew off, allowing something of a respite as it circled higher. 

 

Preston locked eyes with the raider, and then, as the stingwing came back around, bringing with it two more of its companions that they hadn’t even seen before, he nodded. They could shoot each other later, after they dealt with these monsters. 

 

The raider scrambled for their hunting rifle and Preston wound up his laser musket. He could hear Dakota expertly reloading his revolver with renewed energy, adrenaline breaking through the fog of his illness. 

 

The sickness won out in the end, though. When Dakota attempted to shoot at a stingwing, his wrist gave out and he fired downwards, directly into the hood of one of the cars parked in front of the rest stop. 

 

“SHIT!” He yelled, raspy and terrified, but Preston had already seen it all happen. The raider saw too, and briefly froze. 

 

Dakota ran at them both, crashing into them and shoving them down the embankment by the river. Preston felt rocks dig into his back and he was tangled up with Dakota in a way distinctly different from his daydreams (which didn’t usually include helpful raiders). He didn’t get much time to consider it all before the car exploded and showered them in smoke and bits of metal. Clothes were singed and torn, but miraculously, nobody was hit by any fatal shrapnel from the car. 

 

Dakota rolled off of them both as fast as possible and threw up again as soon as he was a small distance away. 

 

Preston quickly followed him, gently rubbing his back.

 

“You want some water?” He asked. 

 

Dakota opened his mouth to answer, when he was cut off by the sound of the hunting rifle reloading behind Preston. 

 

Preston whirled around to face the raider’s gun. 

 

“Whoa, take it easy,” Dakota said, clearly trying to make himself sound less ill than he was, “We don’t...wanna fight you.” 

 

“Well that’s just too damn bad, isn’t it?” the raider said, voice muffled under their bandana. “Couple of Minutemen boys like you probably have a lotta good stuff on ya.” 

 

Preston knew he wouldn’t have time to wind up his laser musket before the raider could fire and he knew the raider could tell Dakota was sick. That being said, he didn’t like the idea of a truce with a raider. 

 

Dakota raised his hands up, showing the raider he wasn’t about to go for his revolver. “You look like you’re alone. Where’s your friends?” 

 

“Don’t matter, I can take ya alone. Cowboy there has to wind up his stupid little gun. And you look ‘bout half-dead.” 

 

“Hey now, that’s just my face,” Dakota said with what Preston figured was his best attempt at a grin. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, real funny...well. Well look, man, just gimme everything you’re carryin’ then, huh?” 

 

“Can’t do that,” Dakota replied, starting to sway again as he spoke, “We have a delivery to make and you’re not too much of a threat by yourself, so…” 

 

Preston stepped as close to him as he could in case he fell. He wasn’t sold on this plan Dakota seemed to have, but he trusted him. 

 

The raider’s hands shook as they waved the gun back and forth between Preston and Dakota. Dakota shook, too, but Preston knew the raider’s tremors had a different cause. When they finally pulled the bandana down, he knew his suspicion was right. 

 

The raider looked young, maybe in his 20s, but with deep circles under his eyes and a sickly look that Preston recognized. Withdrawal wasn’t unheard of for a raider, but this one was alone, probably ran out of a chem stash. 

 

He had a long, pale face and messy blown-back hair that might’ve been blonde at one point in its life. His hazel eyes were wide and bloodshot. 

 

The raider brandished the gun again, then finally lowered it. 

 

“Fine,” he said, “Get goin’.” 

 

Preston was relieved to get out that easily, ready to just go before the raider decided to kill them for chems. So of course he was surprised when Dakota spoke up again. 

 

“Well, wait. Why not come with us?”

 

The raider looked as shocked as Preston felt. “Why the fuck would I do that?” 

 

Dakota shrugged, playing casual. “Help us get to Somerville Place, and we’ll pay you. You can’t have much at your little camp up there.”

 

The raider glanced back at his camp. Preston hadn’t really looked at it before, but it was just a ratty tarp making up a makeshift tent near the remnants of a statue that had probably been defaced by a whole raider gang. Maybe even this kid’s gang. 

 

The raider scratched his arm and looked...the strung-out equivalent of sheepish. “Yeah...okay fine, man. But you dicks better pay me.” 

 

Dakota gave him a smile, still trying to hide his exhaustion. “No problem. I’m Dakota, this is Preston. What’s your name?” 

 

Preston was used to Dakota’s unwavering friendliness but he was...dubious to say the least about this raider. He slung Dakota’s arm over his shoulder and started them down the dirt road to Somerville Place with the raider walking alongside them. 

 

“Tetanus,” the raider responded. He sidled up and put Dakota’s other arm over his shoulder to help him walk. “Saw it in some pre-War bullshit book. It’s like, some fuckin’ nasty disease so I thought that was cool.” 

 

Dakota laughed quietly. “Tetanus, huh? Why not Lockjaw?” 

 

Preston raised an eyebrow at this. He’d heard the term before, but he wasn’t sure what sort of connection there was. The raider looked even more confused.

 

“What’s that gotta do with my name?” 

 

Dakota laughed a little harder even though it made him cough. “Lockjaw’s another name for Tetanus. And it sounds...more raider-y to me.” 

 

The raider gave him a good, long pause before he spoke again. “Aw….aw, fuck...that is cooler. Goddammit.” 

 

“Never too late to change your name.” 

 

Preston didn’t like this friendly chit-chat Dakota was having with a raider, but he kept quiet about it as they talked. As the adrenaline of the fight wore off, however, Dakota started to trail off and grow quieter. After a while, they stopped talking altogether, and Dakota shakily switched the pip-boy radio on for sound. 

 

When the opening to  _ Way Back Home _ came on, Tetanus was the one to react, perking up a little. “Heyyy, I like this one!” 

 

Preston couldn’t resist asking, “Really? Scary raider like you?” 

 

“Shut up, it’s catchy.”

 

Dakota looked about half-asleep again but he laughed, weakly patting them both on the shoulders before he began to sing along, off-key and tired. Preston felt kind of stupidly jealous when the raider joined in with him, even more off-key and barely knowing the words. 

 

He had to admit, though, he had a pretty good story to tell back at the Castle. 


	8. Chapter 8

     When Somerville Place’s small guard tower appeared through the fog, Preston was the happiest he’d ever been to have a gun aimed at him. Their guard - an appropriately intimidating but otherwise friendly man - lowered the gun when he saw Preston and the General, and raised it again when he saw the raider. 

 

“Preston Garvey, yeah? Who’s that?” he gestured at Tetanus with the gun. The raider visibly flinched. 

 

“Well, looks like I’m all done here, boys,” he said quickly, “I’ll just take my payment and get outta here…” 

 

Preston sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “Just let me get Dakota settled first.” 

 

Tetanus nervously hung behind them as Preston tried to rouse Dakota enough to let him know where they were. 

 

Dakota finally gave him a groggy answer after a few moments. “Can I lie down yet?” 

 

“Is anyone gonna tell me what’s going on?” The guard asked, a little louder to catch everyone’s attention. 

 

Preston nodded apologetically. “Sorry, man. Look, the General got hurt and it’s infected. He’s really sick and he needs help. I don’t know what medical supplies you all have here, but...at least he could lie down somewhere safe?”

 

“Oh  _ shit _ ,” the guard looked as though he’d just realized the gravity of Dakota’s condition. “Just let me get everyone.” 

 

The guard disappeared briefly into the house, which had undergone repairs since the last time Preston had been here. The ceiling was patched up, there were seats around the firepit behind the guard tower, and perhaps the most obvious addition: a mostly-intact schoolbus, hauled down the hill and settled next to the house. It looked like it had furniture in it, so Preston assumed it was for the guard. 

 

The woman who came out of the house to greet them first was Brandy Worthington. She looked them over with frantic brown eyes and quickly called out, “Deirdre! I need help!” 

 

Her wife appeared in the doorway behind her, paused, then ran forward to meet Brandy in front of Preston. Before Preston could even really make sense of it all, the women carefully extracted Dakota from his hold and placed him between them. Preston felt the raider slip behind him, seemingly hiding from the family. 

 

Two children poked their heads of the door as well, but only briefly before Deirdre said, “Kids, go upstairs.” 

 

     As Preston followed the pair into the house, Tetanus hung back and Preston lost track of him after that. He found himself focused instead on Dakota, whose shivering body was held up by Deirdre as Brandy ran upstairs. Preston could hear her hushing her children as she rummaged through what he assumed was the family’s storage. Sure enough, she came back down with a rolled-up cot - cleaner than the ones they’d slept on in the shipping crate, thankfully - and an armful of bedding. 

 

“What happened to him?” she asked sharply. 

 

“Pack of ferals got us in that Forest Grove place,” Preston answered, “I bandaged him the best I could, but… it’s a long story. It got infected.” 

 

“Ferals, christ. Anything else I should know about? And sit down, you look dead on your feet.” She paused only briefly before turning to Deirdre. “The medical stuff’s in the shed out back, can you get it?” 

 

While she spoke, Brandy shoved the two red armchairs out of the house’s tiny sunroom to make a space for Dakota’s cot. Preston took one, pushed it against the far wall, and sat in it. It amazed him just how exhausted he was when he finally sat down. When he looked up, Deirdre had left the building (leaving Dakota in the other armchair) and Brandy was unrolling the cot in the sunroom.

 

“Not long after the ferals, we ran into a yao guai.” Preston continued. 

 

Brandy gave a short laugh. “Figures.” 

 

“Yeah. We couldn’t fight it with Dakota hurt so bad. So we jumped into the river.” 

 

“Well shit. There’s your infection if it didn’t come from the ferals,” Brandy said. “Anyways, help me lay him down here.”

 

Preston’s legs almost gave out when he stood up, but he got across the room and with Brandy’s help, he was able to get Dakota carefully laid onto the cot. There was even a relatively clean, comfy pillow under his head. They covered him with blankets, and Preston then tried to get his attention. He slipped his hand into Dakota’s and shook it gently.

 

“Dakota? Can you hear me?” 

 

A few tense seconds later, he felt Dakota’s hand squeeze his. 

 

“Kinda,” he said weakly, too tired to raise his voice, “Hard from that side, though.” 

 

“Don’t worry, they’re...they’re gonna fix you up. You’re safe now.” Preston’s throat closed up as he talked and he choked the words out with a mixture of relief and fear. They were someplace relatively safe, someplace with honest to god medical supplies beyond their meager stash, but Dakota wasn’t out of the woods yet. And Preston still felt the creeping terror of losing someone else in the back of his mind. 

 

Brandy stayed in the room but kept respectfully quiet while Preston tried to comfort Dakota through another coughing fit. By the time Deirdre returned, carrying a wooden box and a doctor’s bag, Dakota had fallen back asleep and Preston situated himself against the sunroom windows. He decided to stay on the side Dakota seemed to have better hearing on while they treated him, just in case. 

 

“His fever is real bad,” Brandy spoke bluntly as she tied her dark hair up into a ponytail and brushed her bangs out of her face. 

 

Deirdre set the medical supplies next to her and moved over to the small stove in the corner of the main room of the home. Preston could hear her digging around in the pots and pans and he wasn’t sure what she was doing. He was trying to keep his attention on Dakota. 

 

Brandy was no doctor, but she had the sort of medical knowledge one has living in a place this remote with two kids to take care of. Strong, weathered hands reached into the doctor’s bag and pulled a glass bottle of clear liquid, a pair of scissors, a roll of gauze, and a small container Preston didn’t recognize. Then she pulled a very large bottle out of the wooden box. 

 

“What’s that?” Preston asked, surprised at how weak and quiet his voice had gotten. He gestured at the large bottle and then the small container. 

 

“Hm? Oh, the little box is a salve I make. It’ll help with the pain. The big bottle’s moonshine.” 

 

Preston looked back at the moonshine bottle. “Guess it’ll work for a disinfectant.” 

 

“And for a drink when we’re all done.” Brandy gave him a lopsided grin. 

 

Preston’s smile was tired, but he laughed a little. “Yeah, that sounds perfect.” 

 

     The process of cutting off Dakota’s mangled, foul bandages was slow and Preston let his eyes drift to the foggy swamp outside the window. Dead, splintered trees pointed towards the sky and moss hung off their branches in clumps. In the low fog, Preston was almost certain he could see things moving around occasionally, but nothing seemed to come close to the house. He watched the guard step down from his post and patrol the edges of the family’s property. Tetanus was surprisingly still there, too, sitting on a chair by the firepit. He was talking to the guard, but Preston couldn’t hear what they were saying. 

 

Deirdre brought over a bucket of water she’d boiled and set it down next to Brandy. When she headed back to the stove, she started shopping vegetables from their farm. Preston figured it was for soup. The kids poked their heads down from their attic room and shushed each other as they watched their mother pour moonshine onto a cloth and press it against Dakota’s wounded face. 

 

Preston squeezed Dakota’s hand tight when he hissed in pain at the alcohol on his open wound. It was a blur for him when Brandy took the small glass bottle and filled a syringe with its contents - penicillin, Preston could read from the label - and injected Dakota, gentle but quick. She washed his cut with the hot water and stitched the worst of it shut with a sewing needle she disinfected in moonshine. She rubbed the salve (which Preston was too dazed to ask the contents of) over the edges of the wound and then re-wrapped Dakota’s head in gauze like she’d done it her whole life. 

 

“He’s gonna need rest,” she told Preston, breaking the silence of the room, “He’ll be out of commission for a while, but you two can stay as long as you need to.” 

 

“Thank you, honestly….thank you so much,” Preston replied. He leaned heavily against the wall for a moment. He sat up again when he remembered the raider. “What about...er, him?” 

 

He motioned outside to the raider in question, who was now eating something the guard shared with him. 

 

Brandy crossed her arms. “Well I can’t say I’m a fan of raiders. The kid helped you two out, though?” 

 

“Yeah...I guess he did. I think his gang left him behind or something. He was alone.” Preston rubbed the back of his neck as he reluctantly defended the raider. 

 

“I don’t know about all that...but it’s just him. And he’s hardly a threat, he’s just skin and bones. Can’t be older than twenty.” 

 

Preston shrugged. “He...helped us fight off some stingwings. And he seems alright, for a raider.” 

 

Brandy pursed her lips and paused for quite a while, watching Tetanus as he dug into his meal and laughed at something the guard said. Then she sighed, relenting. “Alright, the kid can stay. We’ll keep an eye on him. Maybe he makes himself useful and we get a farmhand.” 

 

“Never thought I’d be trying to get someone to give a raider a chance,” Preston said with a tired laugh, “Dakota’s usually the one doing that.”

 

“You guys got raiders in the Minutemen now?” 

 

“There’s a couple ex-raiders now, yeah. And Rita back in Sanctuary, well...I’m not sure if she is but I think so.” 

 

Brandy looked pensive for a moment, glancing between Preston and the raider outside. “Guess everyone’s got things they ain’t proud of.”

 

Preston nodded in agreement. Truthfully, he was growing too tired to talk about it in depth and he felt himself slip off a few times as he leaned against the windowpane. Eventually, he felt someone shake his shoulder. 

 

When Preston opened his eyes, Deirdre was in front of him, and she set a bowl of soup in his hands. The two children came down from upstairs after a while and got their own bowls, then went back upstairs, but not without stopping to ask their parents who the man lying on the floor was and what was wrong with him. 

 

Brandy ushered them back to their room and then sat at the tiny dining table to eat her own dinner. 

 

     Later that night, Deirdre showed Preston to a shed attached to the back of the house. It was small, but not uncomfortable, and inside was a rather nicely restored bathtub, a dresser with a few toiletries, a cracked but mostly usable mirror on the wall, and even a rug. A short way away from the shed was an outhouse. 

 

“You oughta clean up, have a bath. You’ll feel better,” she said kindly. “We got a little bit of hot water.” 

 

“You have a water heater?” Preston had come across a few places with them but generally it was a luxury people didn’t waste their scrap metal on. 

 

Deirdre just laughed. “Your General helped set it up the last time he came through here. That man can build anything out of scrap and garbage.” 

 

Preston’s heart lurched at the mention of Dakota, suddenly reminded of his friend’s precarious state, but he smiled. “Yeah, you’re...you’re right about that.” 

 

He’d once asked Dakota how he learned to build things and all he could say was he grew up liking to take things apart and put them back together. It was meticulous and field stripping weapons in the military kept him sharp enough to keep doing it. He had an eye for details, a good memory, and he was clever. He once expressed that he was shocked his brain wasn’t absolute mush after being frozen, but it seemed like those effects were mostly superficial. Mostly. 

 

As he sank into a hot bath later that night, Preston thought about that. The tremor in Dakota’s hands, the streaks of grey in his hair. The way the man was thirty-three (210 years of cryogenic freezing notwithstanding) and looked about forty-five. Dakota’s health was questionable at best, and on a good day it made Preston fuss. Tonight, it made tears start to roll down his face as he sat in the bath. He’d lost enough people already. Friends, leaders, innocent people...deaths he still blamed himself for. It scared him enough to think of the Minutemen losing their leadership again, but now he was goddamned in  _ love  _ with Dakota. He couldn’t even process the thought anymore. 

 

When he stepped out of the bath, Preston found a bottle of bourbon on the dresser by the tub, and he didn’t even think to ask Deirdre or Brandy before he opened it. He wasn’t about to get drunk while he still had so much to do, but he’d have a shot or two. Enough to calm his nerves. 

 

Preston pulled on a bathrobe from the dresser. The bathtub was still full of soapy water, so he took the opportunity to wash his clothes as well. He briefly went back to the house to pick up Dakota’s clothes, which Deirdre helpfully stripped from the sleeping man to check him for other wounds. 

 

It wasn’t that much of a priority, but their clothes were a bloody mess soaked in river water and Preston wanted to keep his hands busy. Something to do while he stewed in worry. By the time he had everything relatively clean, Brandy came to the doorway of the shed.

 

“You should rest,” she said, “I’ll hang those up to dry. We set up a cot for you by the General.” 

 

     It took a little more coaxing, but Preston found himself lying on the spare cot in the sunroom, staring up at the ceiling. A fan lazily spun around overhead. The lights in the house were all off save for an oil lantern next to Brandy and Deirdre’s bed. Their bedroom door was open while the two women milled about finishing the farm’s nightly chores and light spilled out of it across the small living room. Dakota slept next to Preston, breathing shallow and scratchy. Preston reached over for just a moment as if to squeeze Dakota’s hand, and then he pulled back, changing his mind. He didn’t want to wake him up. 

 

His mind kept fretting, kept running through the horrible events of the past few days. But eventually, Preston gave in and he was out like a light, listening to the sounds of the swamp at night. 

 


	9. Chapter 9

     When Preston woke up, it was late into the next morning. Bright rays of gold sunlight were breaking through the fog and spilling in through the cracks in the house and the fan was still spinning, giving him a gentle breeze. He sat up to find Dakota still asleep in the cot next to him, and for one brief moment before he saw his chest rise and fall gently, he thought the worst. Dakota looked a little better upon closer inspection. He’d gotten a little of the color back in his face and the swelling around his wound seemed to have gone down from what Preston could see around the fresh gauze bandages. Preston smiled a little, relieved, and stood up. 

 

The house was empty but he could hear the kids playing outside in front of it and Tetanus’ voice along with them, indicating the raider had stuck around since last night. When Preston walked outside, he was surprised to see Tetanus and both children clustered around a large wooden box. 

 

“What are you gonna do with that?” Preston asked, somewhat tentatively, as he walked closer to them. 

 

“Buildin’ a dog house,” the young boy answered. His sister nodded and Tetanus gave Preston a rather sheepish thumbs up. 

 

Preston didn’t see a dog at all, but he saw Brandy walking the perimeter of the property carrying a scrap of meat and he easily enough put it together that they were trying to find one. It wasn’t anything unusual, a good watchdog was a lifesaver in places like this. 

 

     Deirdre was in the family’s garden, tending to the corn by the looks of it. Preston was a little surprised and relieved to see such a nice, peaceful morning out here. It gave him time to breathe and Dakota time to recover. But the lingering worry in the back of his head was Jamaica Plain. They still needed the medicine. They needed it fast, that was the whole point of this trip. Waiting around, they weren’t getting it there in any sort of hurry. Dakota wasn’t in any condition to move yet though, and Preston knew he’d never make it on his own. If they’d brought Dogmeat, maybe...but Dakota had left him to guard Sanctuary. 

 

“You okay, man?” Preston jumped at the sound of a voice  behind him - Tetanus’ voice, it turned out. 

 

“Hm? Oh...I’ll be alright.” Preston couldn’t really come up with anything beyond a muted response. He went back to staring at the swamp. 

 

“Yer just like...spacin’ out is all. The ladies livin’ here said yer boy’s gonna be okay if that’s what it is.” 

 

Preston shook his head. “It’s not really that and he’s not my boy. He’s my commanding officer.” 

Tetanus snorted. “Hey, whatever you’re into. Anyways, what  _ is  _ botherin’ you?”

 

Preston attempted to roll his eyes subtly as the raider talked. Getting the impression Tetanus  would keep asking, he eventually relented. “We’re supposed to be delivering medicine to Jamaica Plain. We’re already behind after the ferals got us, and...now this. I’m just upset I can’t do a better job of helping those people.” 

 

Tetanus stood next to Preston and nudged his arm. “Well, hey, they can hold out another day if they’re the kinda people that live way the fuck out in Jamaica Plain.” 

 

It was enough to make Preston pause and admittedly it made him feel a little better. “I...you might be right about that. Er, thanks.” 

 

“I know the type,” Tetanus said with a shrug, “They’re tough. Besides you ain’t far now, once your  _ commanding officer _ is on his feet again you two can get there in like, a couple hours tops.” 

 

“And what about you?” Preston asked, curiosity getting the better of him. 

 

Tetanus didn’t answer for a moment, he just looked around like he was thinking about something. “I think I’m gonna stay here, yknow. See what happens.” 

 

“That’s...really good. Turning your life around and all that.” 

 

“Yeah...plus I think I just...like it here.” 

 

     Preston spent the rest of his morning walking the perimeter of Somerville, keeping his eyes to the fog. Sometime close to noon, Deirdre came out of the house and offered him some mirelurk cakes and it was then that Preston realized he’d forgotten to eat since the soup he had last night and he tore into his lunch so fast he nearly made himself sick. He split a Nuka-Cola with Tetanus and watched as the kids took their mirelurk cakes with them out to check the spots they’d left meat out to attract dogs. Hopefully it wouldn’t attract the aggressive, feral variety. 

 

“Uh, Mr. Garvey?” Brandy’s Boston accent called to him from the doorway of the house. She was wiping off her hands on a small dishrag. 

 

Preston turned around a little too fast, anxious for news as to his General’s condition. “Yeah?” 

 

“Your friend’s waking up. I just changed the bandages and I don’t think you two should leave yet, he’s still pretty out of it.”  

 

Preston barely listened, foregoing his usual polite demeanor to push his way past Brandy (she huffed in mild annoyance but made no mention of it) and over to the sunroom. 

 

Sitting up in bed, looking sickly-pale and wobbly but nonetheless alive and awake, was Dakota. His hair was a sweaty mess and his head was bandaged, but the blood wasn’t soaking through anymore and Preston couldn’t see as much of the swelling. 

 

Dakota smiled lopsidedly when he saw him and weakly stood up, leaning in the sunroom’s archway. In that moment, Preston forgot his professionalism. Commanding officer or not, Dakota was someone he couldn’t stand the thought of losing. In a fit of what he’d later defend as overwhelming relief, Preston threw his arms around Dakota’s neck before he said anything. Able to press his face into Dakota’s bare neck, Preston was once again reminded just how tall the man was. 

 

“Well, hey...somebody missed me while I was out,” Dakota’s warm voice teased gently, “Thought you told me you aren’t a hugger.” 

 

Preston pulled back and quickly cleared his throat. “Sorry, General. I’m...it’s good to see you on your feet is all. You scared me.” 

 

The response Preston got was the familiar feeling of Dakota’s shaky hand taking off his hat playfully. 

 

“Don’t worry. I still feel pretty shitty, but...I’m coming around. We can head out soon.” 

 

Preston frowned. “Brandy said we shouldn’t leave today and...I think she’s right, man. You can barely stand.” 

 

It took Dakota a moment to respond, and he did so by first sitting back down on his cot. “Alright, point. I can barely hold myself up aaaand I...can’t hear out of this side.” 

 

Dakota pointed to the side of his head with the infected cut and Preston knelt down in front of him. “Well...maybe it’ll clear up when you’re feeling better.” 

 

It was a weak attempt at reassurance. Preston knew infection could leave permanent effects and Dakota losing some of his hearing wasn’t too beyond the pale. 

 

Dakota sighed and leaned his head onto Preston’s shoulder. “Think Brandy’s definitely right about us staying another day, I got real dizzy just now.” 

 

Preston gave him his best comforting pat on the back. “If you’re feeling better by tomorrow morning, we’ll leave then. If not...I can probably make it that far on my own. Wouldn’t be the first time.” 

 

“By yourself? Through the swamp? Not to mention the mutants and the raiders all over this region…hell no, Preston, I’m going with you.” 

 

“But--” 

 

“I’m going with you even if I’m falling over puking on myself again.” Dakota pulled back to look Preston in the eye. It made Preston’s heart ache and he mentally kicked himself for going into that territory again, but...damn, did he love how determined Dakota was to help people. Preston often felt alone in that respect. It was nice to have someone at his side. 

 

“Thanks, General,” he said, trying not to sound as sheepish as he felt, “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” 


	10. Chapter 10

     Over the course of the day, Dakota started to feel the life come back into his limbs. He was still exhausted, but he could get up and walk to the firepit with Preston and he had the energy to tell the kids (and the raider) a PG-rated version of how he and Preston had met.

 

By that night, however, the fever was creeping back and Brandy had to dose him with antibiotics again. After the injection, Deirdre brought over a cup of Hubflower tea and set it on the small nightstand next to the cots.

 

“Tastes like old motor oil but it’ll help you feel better,” Deirdre said.

 

It taste worse than old motor oil. Dakota knew Hubflowers were bitter, but it was especially hard to drink. Lord, did he wish he had some sugar or something. However, the nasty drink did succeed in easing his aches a little.

 

That night, as he finished the last of the tea, Dakota laid back and stared at the ceiling of the room. He could hear Preston settle in next to him after he finished helping with something or other outside - never could sit still, that one. With someone beside him, Dakota slipped into a deep sleep faster than he had in days.

 

     He woke up with a choking cough two hours later. He still felt hot from his dream, the sting of the explosion in his eyes, the gagging smoke, the metal shrieking as the platform into the vault went lower and lower and never stopped.

 

Preston was already sitting up and reaching over to touch his hand. Dakota yanked it away.

 

“Sorry,” Preston said. The note of hurt in his voice made Dakota feel like a world-class asshole.

 

“No, you’re fine,” he said, “Just a bad dream is all.”

He knew it was coming. Preston’s voice, soft in the night so as to not wake the rest of the small house, asked him, “You...wanna talk about it? It’s okay if you don’t.”

 

Dakota wasn’t sure. Part of him wanted to go back to sleep, the thought of explaining it all was tiring as it is. But the rest of him...well, it’d feel nice to get it out there. Preston knew the gist of Dakota’s history - how he’d ended up here in this post-Nuclear wasteland, a 243-year-old relic. Dakota never told him many details though.

 

He ran a hand through his hair and braced himself to speak. “It wasn’t a nightmare, really. More of a memory. I...saw it, yknow? The bomb.” He paused. “I mean, there were a lot, but I saw... _that_ one.”

 

Dakota motioned in the direction of the Glowing Sea, the light from which was visible from where they were lying.

 

Preston frowned, that concerned look he always got. He patiently waited for Dakota to continue.

 

“I was in Shaun’s room, talking to Corinne. Getting ready for some...awards thing, I don’t even remember it. And then this alarm went off, and…”

 

“Gen--Dakota, you don’t have to talk about this if…”

 

“It’s fine, honest. Helps to tell someone,” Dakota sighed, catching his breath before he continued to talk. “I remember hearing that fucking siren. It’s a lot louder in real life than in the movies...well. Not that you’d have seen any, I guess.”

 

“We have a siren in Sanctuary. I’m guessing it’s a little different though.”

 

“Yeah. Louder and just like...I dunno, it’s hard to explain. It was just a blur, running down the street and up the hill to the vault and it all felt like... _final_ , I guess.”

 

Preston didn’t seem to have much of an answer to that, but before long Dakota felt a warm hand on his shoulder. This time, he leaned into the touch.

They sat there for a few more minutes, listening to the crickets. Then, it was Preston who spoke up. He talked quietly, like it was a hard thing to get out.

 

“I’ve been thinking back. To when we first met.”

 

“In Concord?”

 

“Yeah. It was...it was the lowest point in my life. All my friends were dead, everything I believed in turned out to be a lie.”

 

Dakota didn’t interrupt. He just carefully scooted himself over to sit on Preston’s cot, leaning against his friend’s shoulder.

 

“I’d failed everyone who ever relied on me,” Preston continued, “I’d led them to Concord and we had no hope of getting out of there alive.”

 

While he talked, Preston shifted over so they could watch the stars through the windows of the sunroom. Dakota stayed against his shoulder the entire time.

 

“The thing is...that was actually okay with me. I was ready to die. I felt like-- like it was what I deserved. What I wanted.”

 

The words cut into Dakota worse than the feral ghouls had. He’d certainly always caught the melancholy behind Preston’s level-headed demeanor, but somehow, he never expected it to go that deep. Or maybe he never expected to have to hear it and be faced with the thought of someone he cared so much about hurting that badly.

 

“I never realized you’d lost hope like that. I’m sorry.”

 

Preston shrugged. “That was kind of on purpose. I had to put on a brave face as long as there were people still counting on me. That’s the only reason I kept going.” He shook his head and continued before Dakota could say anything. “My point in all of this is--is that you saved my life. Not just in Concord. I mean you made me wanna keep living.”

 

“Preston, I…” Dakota himself wasn’t even sure what he meant to say there.

 

“It sounds pretty sappy, I know. It’s true, though. If we hadn’t met, or you hadn’t stuck around...I think after a while I would’ve found some way to end it.” He paused, like he was working up to it. “Sooo...I just wanted you to know that. What our friendship means to me.”  

 

Dakota turned to look at him, still fighting through his medicated, feverish haze. He’d have liked to be more lucid for this talk. But maybe that’s why Preston brought it up in the first place, maybe there was something disarming about them both being so out of it.

 

Through that fog, though, Dakota could see the earnest look in Preston’s eyes. The awkward little smile like he was really hoping for a good response. And with a grace that Dakota was surprised he still had, he took Preston’s face into his shaky hands, pulled him in close, and kissed him.

 

It was brief and clumsy, and when Dakota realized what he was doing, he quickly pulled back. “Shit, I’m sorry. I wasn’t really...I didn’t think.”

 

He turned away, not expecting Preston to pull him right back. “No, hold on. You just kind of caught me off guard there, were you…?”

 

“I should’ve asked first.”

 

Preston took a deep breath. He couldn’t hide his hopeful smile, though, Dakota saw that right away. “If you mean to ask if I’ve ever thought about you... _romantically_ , the short answer is yes.”  

 

“Well I might not have phrased it exactly like that,” Dakota teased, nudging Preston. “Would’ve just said ‘crush’.”

 

Preston rolled his eyes. “You know what I meant. I never imagined you’d feel the same about me. I mean…” He paused, taking a more serious note, “I know she’s...Corinne is gone, but you still love her. I didn’t think you’d be ready to move on.”

 

Dakota carefully squeezed Preston’s hand. Without their gloves, it felt warm and calloused. “I don’t have to stop loving Corinne to love you, too.”

 

Preston’s eyes widened and he clearly fought to keep his voice down in his excitement. “Really? That’s...that’s fantastic! I...wow.”

 

“Speechless, huh? I guess I still got it after 200 years.”

 

“I don’t really know what to say, I thought what I felt was all in my imagination. Just give me a minute to enjoy this.” Preston’s face went a little red but he didn’t stop smiling. Dakota leaned on him sleepily.

 

“I can give you all night to enjoy it, I’m falling asleep again.”

 

Preston rather shyly put his arm around Dakota’s shoulders. “We don’t have to rush anything. It’s probably good for both of us if we take things slow.”

 

“Especially since I still feel like death warmed over.” Dakota said it with amusement and slid back down to lie on his cot. He pulled Preston down with him and into another kiss he slid his fingertips between the gaps between Preston's, holding his warm palm in his own. “This is pretty nice, though.”

 

     He woke up several hours later to early-morning sunshine coming through the glass panes around them. He had wound up lying on Preston’s chest, one arm lazily thrown over him. For the first time in days, he didn’t feel like he was about to throw up, just calm and warm. Maybe it was irresponsible or thoughtless of him, with people counting on them, but Dakota found it impossible not to fall back asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

     Preston woke up another two hours later and had a brief moment of panic before he remembered the foggy conversation he’d had with Dakota last night and why the General was asleep on his chest. He ran his fingers through Dakota’s hair, careful of the sore side of his head. 

 

Dakota woke up after a moment or two, offering him a lazy smile. “Hey.” 

 

“Morning, sleepyhead.” Preston felt a hint of self-consciousness at his syrupy greeting before Dakota responded by smiling wider.

 

“I’d love to just sit here and call each other pet names, honestly,” he said, “But I don’t feel like I’m dying anymore so maybe we oughta get moving today.” 

 

Preston sat up and Dakota moved off of him, sitting up and looking livelier than he had in days. 

 

“Yeah, we’re already so late…” Preston said, “But we can get there soon if we just hurry. How’s your head?”

 

Dakota frowned. “Still can’t hear out of this side, but...who knows, maybe it’ll clear up.” 

 

Preston watched as he got up, still wobbly but better than before. Dakota swayed a few times, then steadied himself and gave Preston a thumbs-up. 

 

It took a while for him to get dressed, as he was still slow and sore for sleeping on the cot and barely moving for so long. Once Dakota had popped every joint in his body and had another cup of tea, he looked like he might actually be able to make this trip. 

 

Preston still worried, of course. But they couldn’t stop now, not when they were so close. When they were both dressed in their freshly-washed clothes, weapons and supply bags strapped to their backs, the pride of the Minutemen headed out the front door of the tiny house. They said their quick goodbyes to Brandy and Deirdre, the kids, the guard, and Tetanus. Preston had to explain to Dakota that the now ex-raider had decided to stay here with the promise of being the family’s farmhand. 

 

It brought a smile to Dakota’s face and he bumped Preston’s shoulder, gentle and playful with a closeness he hadn’t really had before. Preston would be glad when this trip of theirs was over and he could fully enjoy being alone with Dakota. Until then, however, they had a trip to make. 

 

     They cut directly through the swamp in the direction of Jamaica Plain, then veered outwards to give the raider bases a wide berth. The swamp itself, as expected, had very little in the way of ground that wasn’t submerged in murky water. They weaved through broken trees, ducked under hanging moss and very quickly gave up trying to stay on land. Dakota still leaned on Preston as they slogged  through the mud and reeds, but he wasn’t collapsing or vomiting anymore. The water was waist deep in some places and through the heavy fog, Preston occasionally caught glimpses of what he assumed were Mirelurks. 

 

Dakota reached for his rifle, but Preston stopped his arm. “I think we can go around.”

 

After a pause, Dakota looked at him and nodded. “Yeah. Let’s just try and do this quick.” 

 

It was a slow venture, picking through the covered areas of the marsh and creeping low, close to the water, underneath the moss and branches. They slipped through the foliage unnoticed, going around a run-down cabin built into the trees when Dakota pointed out a feral ghoul asleep underneath it. They kept to the shadows and Preston kept a firm hand on Dakota’s shoulder to keep him from falling. 

 

It took an hour of careful, measured steps through the swamp before they reached the railroad tracks that marked a halfway point between Somerville and Jamaica Plain. It had been hard to see in the morning fog, but now, as the sun climbed higher in the cloudy sky, it was clearly visible. Preston had to pull Dakota up the steep incline. When they reached the tracks, Dakota was in still in a lively mood despite his lingering illness. 

 

“Almost there,” he said, throwing his arm over Preston’s shoulder. “Just a little farther.” 

 

Preston felt his face heat up a little but he couldn’t help himself, smiling bright and leaning into the touch. “You wanna put on the radio?” 

 

Dakota paused for a moment in an exaggerated display of thinking on it. “Yeah, what the hell, why not?” 

 

The length intro to  _ Worry Worry Worry  _ came in when Dakota flicked the Pip-boy radio on and Preston already knew Dakota was going to sing along. It was as simultaneously embarrassing and comforting as always, Dakota’s pleasant but slightly off-key voice alongside the muddled radio signal. 

 

The air was thick and humid and it was hard to breathe, the swamp smelled like rot and dead plants, and they still had a ways to go, but the familiar singing took the edge off. Preston began to hum along as they stepped down the other side of the railroad tracks and into another stretch of murky swampland and flooded homes. 

 

Preston and Dakota had to circumvent a cluster of half-submerged houses that a family of Yao Guai had taken up residence in. Lord knows they didn’t need another fight like that, and besides, there were cubs. Preston wasn’t in any hurry to kill baby bears. They cut through a house a little farther from the bears’ home. It was almost surreal, wading through the water in the sunken building that was by some miracle not entirely collapsed yet. There were still dishes in the sink and a filthy teddy bear lay on a floating piece of a cabinet door. They’d seen their share of wrecked homes, relics of pre-War times not unlike Dakota’s own house in Sanctuary Hills. This was particularly unsettling, however.

 

They tried to get through the house as quickly as possible. 

 

Eventually, the swamp was behind them and relatively dry ground lay ahead. After a quick check of Dakota’s map, they cut through to a collapsed chapel and past it towards Hyde Park. Hyde Park was notoriously full of raiders and it took another silent, tense trip around to avoid it. From the distance, they could still see it clearly enough - the flooded remnants of a town not unlike Forest Grove. Rickety bridges connected the tops of the buildings, where the raiders had constructed their lopsided shacks and chem dens. Preston briefly wondered if this was the gang Tetanus had belonged to. 

 

He kind of hoped not when the next thing they saw was a massive tree, spanning out in the middle of what may have been a park, strung bottom-to-tip with bodies. This sort of gruesome decor was what made him pretty unforgiving to raiders, but he tried not to think about it too hard today. Not when they had other things to focus on,  when they were so close to their destination. 

 

“That’s just...excessive,” Dakota commented quietly as they passed the tree. 

 

“These raiders are disgusting. I...nevermind, let’s just keep moving.” 

 

Preston half-expected a Deathclaw to show up on the last stretch of the trip, right between them and Jamaica Plain. Somebody must have been watching out of them, though. Within the hour, through the fog and the dreary clouds and the wreckage of buildings that could house dangers of all sorts, the lights and smoke from Jamaica Plain became visible. The place was locked up tight as ever with the junk fences Dakota had helped its settlers build, reinforcing the small section of buildings they’d holed up in. Strings of lights and strips of fabric hung between the buildings, providing light and shade and lively color. The town was quiet, but it didn’t feel deathly. It just felt like everyone was hiding, waiting for the Minutemen to ride in and save the day again. He tried not to let the pride of the moment go to his head. 

 

     The one who opened the gate for them was a ghoul woman who’d wrapped herself up tight in a thick winter coat and covered her head in a scarf. She was no guard, just one of the small group of settlers that lived here, and her eyes were fearful until they rested on Preston. She grew bright when she saw him, smiling wide and laughing. 

 

“You’re him! Oh thank god you’re here,” she said, “Everyone’s been worried for days, thought maybe something happened.” 

 

Preston wasn’t used to the fame. Everyone knew who he was, even better than they knew Dakota. Dakota always liked to joke that Preston was the prettier one, making a better face for the Minutemen. 

 

“We...ran into some trouble, ma’am, but the Minutemen are always here to help.” 

 

Dakota leaned on Preston and smiled at the ghoul, that lopsided charmer grin he used to make people feel safer. “I just got a little roughed up is all. We’re here now, though, and we’ve got what you asked for.” 

 

The woman nodded and didn’t waste much more time on pleasantries. “Follow me, I’ll take you to the doctor.” 

 

The man they met was more a grizzled adventurer than a doctor but he had a warm smile and more medical experience than either of them. He introduced himself as Grant Quatermass and the ghoul helpfully added, “We just call him Bear.” 

 

Bear adjusted his glasses and shook both Preston and Dakota’s hands politely. “Good to meet you two, we’ve been in a rough spot.” 

 

Bear’s voice was softer than his imposing height and bulk would imply. Preston kind of immediately liked him. 

 

“How’s everyone holding up?” Dakota asked, tired but friendly. He always kept his kind, approachable demeanor when he talked to settlers. 

 

“Could be better, could be worse. We’ve been keeping everyone inside and out of the cold as best we can.” Bear lead them into one of the ruined houses - now fortified with all manner of scrap metal fencing - where a small clinic had been set up. Jamaica Plain was a small community of hardy types who were used to hard living, but Bear’s clinic was at least somewhat comfortable. Most of the residents of the town were there, it seemed, laid out on cots with old curtains hung between them. 

 

Bear stopped at a small table that he appeared to have been using for his medical supplies. He moved aside a tray of examination equipment and a battered clipboard. Dakota pulled the bag off of his back and reached inside. It felt like a weight lifted off Preston’s shoulders when he pulled out the small case of needles. It’d been battered, dropped, trampled on by ghouls, and thrown in the river, but by some miracle the syringes were intact. Preston could’ve cried right there.

 

Instead, Dakota walked back over to him and put an arm over his shoulders. “So...I dunno about you, but I’m ready to relax a bit. Wanna stop in Diamond City on our way home?” 

 

“I thought you wanted to  _ relax _ .” 

 

“Touche. But I could buy you dinner there, yknow.” 

 

Preston gave a quiet laugh. “There’s those pre-War standards again.” 

 

He received a slightly clumsy kiss on the cheek from Dakota as they watched the Jamaica Plain doctor begin his work. “I’m trying to be romantic.” 

 

“Alright, fair enough,” Preston said, unable to help the wide grin across his face as relief and happiness flooded him. “Diamond City it is.” 

 


	12. Epilogue

 

     Dakota’s hearing in his left ear never came back. It was an adjustment but whoever he took on the road with him learned to guard his left side. Otherwise, it didn’t take long for him to recover from his illness. The wound on his head scarred and Dakota was oddly proud of it, like he’d had some wasteland rite of passage.

 

Preston didn’t know what to tell the other Minutemen about his newfound relationship with the General and spent days agonizing over how to announce it and assure everyone it wouldn’t get in the way of their duty to protect the people. When he finally did gather everyone and explain the situation, the response was mostly pats on the back and unending teasing from the people who said they totally always knew it’d happen, and ‘finally got up the nerve to tell him, huh?’ and the like. Preston had to admit it made him laugh once he got past the embarrassment. Dakota was absolutely tickled by it from the start, though.

 

Dakota got a sloppily-written letter from Tetanus a week later, brought in by a trader. Tetanus made a nice life for himself in Somerville place, as a farmhand. They’d found a dog and named her Jenna. He even had his own bedroom set up in the rear of the bus the family used as a second house. His letter made particular note of the time he spent with the settlement’s guard (whose name, he helpfully informed them, was Beau) and Dakota had half a mind to just send him a response asking when the wedding was. Preston didn’t let him.

 

They took a few days off after they finally got home to Sanctuary. Preston didn’t like doing it at first but the Minutemen ranks had enough to handle the usual problems and Dakota still needed the rest. Granted most of their vacation was spent in bed decided _not_ resting.

 

“I still have to go to the Glowing Sea,” Dakota told him one lazy evening while they sat together on one of the couches by the firepit. “But yknow, once...all this is settled, we should spend some more time working on this place. Finish that clinic and all.”

 

“You better come back from the Glowing Sea. I don’t wanna lose you.”

 

“Aw, hey. What’s that you always say? Better days coming?”

 

Preston just leaned against his shoulder, letting the lingering worry about Dakota’s safety fade away for the night. There was a lot of bad in the world, but there was a lot of good, too. Maybe they’d be just fine.

 


End file.
